Details
by pathera
Summary: All the little details are what make up a life. A collection of fifty song drabbles. Includes drama, angst, humor, romance, fluff, and almost every pairing you can think of!
1. 1 Through 10

A/N: Welcome to my one _hundredth _posted fic! I, for one, am really excited! I didn't want to post just another one-shot for this kind of milestone (haha), so instead I welcome you to a collection of song-inspired drabbles (a few of which end up being the length of multiple drabbles, but what can I say?). I love doing this kind of fanfiction experiment, writing drabbles inspired by whatever random song decides to pop up on my iTunes. So I started picking the songs--i.e. my iTunes gave me whatever it wanted--and I got so excited that I just didn't stop. I had intended to do a set of ten, and then I said "oh, well, maybe I'll do fifteen, or twenty, or twenty five..." and oh look, I ended up with fifty! Anyway, there are a ton of soundtrack songs mixed in here, along with just plain random songs. I did my best with each of them. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own any of these songs, nor do I own _White Collar _or any of the characters.

A word on the pairings: Throughout this you will find just about every pairing. There's a lot of slash and there's a lot of Peter/Elizabeth/Neal. If you dislike it, don't read it.

And one more warning: There are definite, _definite _spoilers for _Out of the Box _in this. Largely in number seven of this first set. But also remember that some of these go AU and there's no interconnection between them, so in some places I disregard things that have happened in the show, and in other places I include them. Well, warnings and shennanigans over, onto the show!

Details

**1. For Good—Wicked **

Peter Burke doesn't believe in fate. He believes in hard work and determination and choosing your own actions, creating your own path in life.

Neal Caffrey, on the other hand, isn't afraid to believe that there might be someone up there tugging on the strings, leading them down a certain pathway. He doesn't actively look for the signs, but he recognizes them when he sees them.

And to him, Peter Burke is one of those signs.

He lies in his bed sometimes, staring up at the ceiling and thinking, putting all the pieces together and realizing that there is no possible way their destinies intertwined so perfectly without a little divine intervention. If another agent had been assigned to his case or if he hadn't broken out on _that _day…if Peter hadn't taken a chance on him or if Kate hadn't left; if he hadn't been able to solve that first case or if the plan to get out had never come to him like a bolt of inspiration….

_If_.

One tiny change and his world would be completely different. One tiny alteration and he never would have discovered how important Peter could be to him.

He shudders to think of what that world would be like and curls tighter in to Peter's side. Good thing that fate had different plans for them.

* * *

**2. Goodbye Earl—Dixie Chicks **_(For the record, this was written before I saw Out of the Box. It's just a funny coincidence.)_

"What's the FBI's stance on murder?"

Peter doesn't even look up from the files spread out in front of him, just lifts an eyebrow as though intrigued by the idea.

"Last time I checked murder was a crime." The FBI agent says, flipping the page. "And therefore the FBI is obligated to stand against it."

"What if it's not so much _murder _as, say…defense?"

"Self-defense?"

"Something like that."

Peter looks up. There's a twist of amusement to his grin, but his eyes are more serious. "Murder's not the solution to the problem, Haversham." He pushes the folder in front of him away and pulls over another, but holds Mozzie's gaze. "He moping again?"

There's an inclination of a head and he sighs. "As tempting as it might be, we can't kill her. Or have her killed. Or any other solution which ends with her dead."

Mozzie tilts his head to the side. "Framing?" He ventures, and Peter snorts.

"As an FBI agent I am bound to uphold the law. I cannot lawfully arrest someone in good consciousness if I know they are not guilty of the crime in question." He looks away, folding his hands in front of him. "Of course, if I had evidence of a crime that she _has _committed, I am legally obligated to investigate. If you catch my drift."

"Ah," Mozzie says, nodding his head. "Thank you for clearing that matter up for me, Suit."

The short man makes his way out of the room, whistling. Peter grins and opens the new folder. "It's just a matter of time, Kate. A matter of time."

* * *

**3. A Lot Like Me—The Offspring **

The reason why he's so drawn to the white collar criminal—and the basic flaw of their potential relationship, but why linger on that thought?—is rooted in the fact that Neal defies his understanding. He has spent years of his life getting inside the other man's head, learning his patterns, learning how he reacts and why, learning the little details that make up someone's existence. And yet, at the root of it, he still lacks a basic comprehension.

This both frustrates him and exhilarates him. He hates the fact that Neal eludes him; that understanding just slips through his fingers. And at the same time he loves the fact that Neal is someone he can never know all the way through. He's so used to being around people that are transparent, people who he doesn't even have to try in order to understand. Neal's an enigma, a puzzle that he _has _to solve. He's a damn Rubik's cube, one with a hundred sides and a hundred colors and every time he manages to solve one piece he realizes that all the others have fallen into chaos again.

But he'll solve the puzzle in the end. His patience is nearly infinite, after all. It took him three years to catch Neal, and it might take a hundred for him to truly understand the man. But he'll do it. No matter what, he _will _understand what makes Neal Caffrey tick. He's not going to rest until he does.

* * *

**4. Everything We Had—The Academy Is **

The damn wine bottle is smirking at him.

He sees it, glinting there on the mantle in what was its place of glory, _smirking _at him, as though it's known all along that it represented nothing more than a lie. He turns his head away from it, clenching his jaw, but he can still see it in his mind, sitting there with all the smugness that a piece of glass can possess.

He turns back and glares at it, willing it to melt into a puddle of dark tinted remains. Then maybe it would be a more accurate representation of the state of things.

He stands and paces, his mind playing through the conversation over and over again. He doesn't _want _to, but he can't shut his brain off. It seems like everything in the world reminds him of her, and there's not even any solitude in the refuges of his mind. His memories are all tainted, and he just keeps playing through them, looking for the signs he should have seen, wondering when he became such an _idiot_.

_We could have had anything, Kate. We could have had the world. Anything we wanted, anything we dreamt. _He paces, round and round, half expecting to see the treads of his movement worked into the wood beneath his feet. _And even when we didn't have anything I thought we still had everything we really needed. But I was wrong, wasn't I? I was an idiot, blinded by that pretty smile and those guiltless eyes of yours. How did I miss it? How could you have been playing me the whole time, and I never noticed? _

He knocks into a chair. The corner jabs sharply into his side. He kicks it out of his way, snarling.

_You couldn't have meant what you said. You couldn't have. This is part of something bigger, some angle, something that you can't tell me. You're trying to protect me. _He's fooling himself again. He saw the truth, even if he doesn't want to admit it. _I can't believe that it was all a lie. It had to be real. And you wouldn't just throw all that away, would you? You couldn't possibly be that person. _

He pauses, realizing that he's just a bit out of breath, not sure if it's from the fierce circles of movement or from the emotions that are tight in his chest, constricting his lungs. A glint of light catches his eye, darting off of the slick glassy surface of the bottle. He crosses to it, picks it up, holds it in his hands.

This bottle is everything. It's the promise he made her of a better future; it's the map she left him so that he could find her; it's the representation that their relationship can outlast anything. And, according to her, it's all a lie. It's a piece on a chess board, just like he is.

His grip tightens around the neck of the bottle, and then in the next moment he's moving so violently and so fiercely that he can barely believe it. He doesn't recognize this rage in himself, and it almost scares him. The bottle crashes to the ground, splintering into large shards of dark glass. He leans against the wall, breathing hard, staring at the pieces. He hears footsteps in the hallway, hears June calling his name. He can hear the concern in her voice, can see it on her face as she opens the door and then looks from him to the broken bottle.

He stares at the shards of glass. They're like pieces of obsidian, like pieces of volcanic rock glittering on the floor of this apartment, pieces of another world here moving sharply into his existence. He shakes his head and gathers his control.

"I'm fine, June," he says, and then bends to pick up the pieces, one by one. If only it were as easy to pick up the pieces of his world.

* * *

**5. Back to Hell—Alkaline Trio **

"You look like hell."

Neal glares at him, arms folded over his chest. "Thanks for that, Moz." He says, but there's no heat to his voice. He _sounds _just as tired as he looks, and that worries him. He takes a seat across from his friend, looking him over carefully. Neal seems to realize that he's being scrutinized, because he lifts his head and raises an eyebrow. "Can I help you with something?"

"You don't look good, man. Jokes aside."

Neal rubs his temples. "I'm fine, Moz," he says, but there's a defeated catch to his voice, and that downright _scares _him. He has _never _heard Neal Caffrey sound defeated, not like this. He looks at his friend, leaning forwards.

"Neal." He says, and that's all he needs to say. Neal sighs and rests his head on his arms, sinking down. Now he's even more worried. Neal Caffrey doesn't sit at a table and put his head down. He doesn't break that composed shell that he gathers around himself.

"I'm just tired," Neal says dismissively. "I'm working, remember?"

"Yes, I'm aware that you're a slave to the government machine." He sees how Neal winces when he says _slave_, and wonders. His friend hasn't reacted to his comments in the past, so why now? "What else?"

The man frowns, and his eyes go to the window, then down to his ankle. "I hate being trapped. I can practically feel the noose tightening around my neck."

"Well _now _who's being melodramatic?"

Neal scowls at him and he shrugs. "I'm not meant for this corporate, paper work, _normal _kind of thing. I miss it."

"You do realize you get shot at more now than you ever did before, right? Although that is _fairly _normal for a New Yorker…."

"You know what I mean, Mozzie."

He looks at his friend, adjusting his glasses a little. "Well then, what do you want to do?"

Neal stares at him, hearing that hint of suggestion. "I can't _run_."

He raises his eyebrows. "Are you the Neal Caffrey I know or not?"

And slowly, very slowly, Neal begins to smile.

* * *

**6. Give 'Em Hell, Kid—My Chemical Romance **

The pillow still smells like him.

He's not sure what's worse, the days or the nights. During the day he has to put on one of those flawless charming grins, pretend that everything is so perfectly okay, exist in such close proximity that it drives him _crazy_. He can feel the heat of _his _skin, even through the layers of clothing and the distance that separates them. He can feel the space where the lusty gazes and the connection and the fascination was; those spaces now are filled with guilt and awkward moments. They exist like two magnets with switched polarization—where once there was the draw, now they slide in opposite directions, unable to stick any longer.

But the nights…they are emptier. He can feel perfectly alone during the day, even surrounded by dozens of people, even standing right next to him. And when night comes and he _is _alone…it's worse. The pillow still smells like him, like _Old Spice _and faint touches of mint. He hides the pillow from June, preserving the smell. He hates the reminder of what was and what was lost, but he _needs _it too. It keeps him awake at night, inhaling, longing, feeling like a stupid little girl with a crush who sleeps wrapped in a stolen hoodie, but he can't sleep without it either.

The hurt is like a knot in his stomach. It never loosens, just grows tighter and tighter with every day until he just wants to _cry_. He feels himself fading to a shadow of himself. He feels so foolish, but he can't help it. He lays awake at night and stares at the ceiling and just hears the end over and over again: _we have to stop, I-I can't do this anymore, I'm sorry. _

Mozzie makes remarks, and he can see the worry on his friend's face. Jones gives him looks, and Diana tries to get him to go home, but the worst is when Elizabeth sees him and her mouth turns into a little 'o' and she presses her hand to his forehead and dotes over him and asks him what's wrong, and he wants to just open his mouth and say _'this is your fault'_. But he doesn't, because it's not fair to place the blame on _her_. Even if he wants to.

He pushes the pillow away and rolls over onto his stomach, and feels the knot tighten even further.

When there is a low knock he almost doesn't hear it. But trying so hard to feel nothing that he's hyper sensitive to every little sound, and he _does _here it. His heart skips a beat and he pushes his covers back, and heads for the door.

He opens the door and the knot tightens and his throat closes. "What are you doing here?" He asks. Peter doesn't respond verbally, just steps in and closes the door and touches the hollow of his neck. He shivers at the touch, his lips parting in a gasp.

Peter touches their foreheads together, his other hand coming to rest at the back of his neck. "I'm sorry," he whispers. He remembers the last time he heard those words—_I'm sorry—_and wonders what they mean this time. But Peter just takes his hand and tugs him towards the bed and slips beneath the covers with him.

And this time, the knot loosens.

* * *

**7. If Only Tears Could Bring You Back—Midnight Sons **

In his dream he relives the moment. That stupid wide grin on his face as he walks towards the plane, towards _her_. Her face as she looks out the window, her eyes so wide and bright, her smile the biggest one he's ever seen. That moment where he pauses, where he turns to face Peter. That split moment of indecision, where he doesn't know what to say, doesn't know what to do.

That explosion which rocks the world, which burns all of his bright dreams to cinders. He feels the heat vividly, feels the breath rush from him, feels that scream—her _name_—tear from his throat. He wakes every time with that scream still on his lips, wakes with the stark knowledge that he was _right _there. That he _watched _the flames burst up into the sky and couldn't save her.

He wakes, and knows that he's lost her again.

* * *

**8. My World—3 Doors Down **

Neal Caffrey lives in a fantasy world.

This is one of the most frustrating things about him. He lives in a world of his own creation, where he belongs to some fancy, rich, noble society _(which is bullshit, because he was born on Long Island to a single mother with barely a dime to her name)_ and where the crimes he commits are perfectly moral in nature, because he's not _hurting _anyone _(a crime is a crime, even if the 'victim' is a mindless bureaucratic art society)_, and where he has the most perfect, most beautiful girlfriend in the entire world _(Peter Burke knows a few things about Kate Moreau that would make Neal's hair curl if he knew them). _But Neal doesn't like to admit that his fantasy world isn't real. He's perfectly content to exist in his little bubble, with his expensive tailored suits and his fancy hats and his existentialist abstract art.

God, sometimes Peter just wants to reach out and _shake_ him.

But Neal just gives him one of those shiny smiles and heads off to rescue his damsel in distress, and Peter just closes his eyes and shakes his head.

* * *

**9. Don't Stop the Music—Rihanna **

When El gives him _that _look—the one with the puppy dog eyes and the little pleading pout—he can't say no. He whines and chews on his lip and tries to deflect but in the end he always ends up caving. He just can't resist. Even when he really, _really _wants to say no. Like now.

"_Please_, honey? We haven't been out dancing in _years_."

He's going to hyperventilate, he just knows it. "That's because I'm terrible at it. Remember?"

Her lower lip starts to jut forward and her eyes get bigger and mournful. "_El_," he whines, knowing already that he's going to lose in the end, "don't give me that look."

"It's just dancing. Just for a few hours. _Please?_"

He sighs, shoulders slumping. "I guess a few hours wouldn't hurt…."

Instantly the pout is gone, replaced by a winning smile. "Thanks, sweetie!" She kisses his cheek and then flounces away, leaving him frowning after her.

"I've just been manipulated, haven't I?"

* * *

**10. Get Down—Backstreet Boys **

Neal Caffrey realizes that he is jealous on a Sunday, sitting on Peter and Elizabeth's couch after dinner and watching their blissful domesticity. He's certainly no stranger to envy, so he recognizes it when he feels it waking inside of him, but it honestly takes him by surprise. He frowns, sitting back and trying to examine what exactly he is jealous _of_.

It doesn't take long for him to root out the cause. In truth he's jealous of a _lot _of things. He's jealous that Peter and Elizabeth have this quaint little home and this seemingly perfect relationship and this routine of dinner and relaxation that he's been invited into but isn't truly _part _of. And all of that surprises him—he has, after all, spent a large part of his life trying to _avoid _this kind of normal domestic scene—but not nearly as much as what _else _he is jealous of.

He's jealous of the arm that Peter drapes around Elizabeth. He's jealous of the way Peter curls a strand of her hair around his finger, and of the way he brushes the back of her neck with his fingertips, making her shiver. He's jealous of the way she laughs at Peter, of the way her smile lights up. He's jealous of the smile that Peter has when he looks at her, of that dimple that appears in the corner of his mouth, of that light in his eyes that says he's the luckiest man on the planet.

But what does he have to be jealous of? Perhaps it's the closeness of their relationship, the ease with which they fit together. He and Kate have never meshed that easily, nor been that comfortable. So yes, he must be jealous of the kind of relationship they have, one that he envies.

He tries to convince himself that yes, that's what it is, but he knows that's not all of it. He's not only jealous of how close they are and how easy their relationship is, he's jealous that he's not _part _of it. The realization jolts through him. He's jealous because he wants Peter's fingers to brush _his _neck, because he wants El to smile at _him _like that, because he wants Peter's arm to fall around _his _shoulders. He wants to feel the heat of their bodies against, wants El to laugh that special way because of something _he _says, wants that little dimple to come to life when Peter smiles at _him_.

Well…that's unexpected.

He realizes that Elizabeth is watching him, and realizes that he's been staring at them. He smiles at her and pulls his gaze away, distracting himself by petting Satchmo, who is sprawled at his feet. But he sees Elizabeth tilt her head so that she can whisper in her husband's ear. He sees Peter raise an eyebrow and feels the man's gaze come to rest on him.

And, _dammit_, he feels himself blush.

He clears his throat and stands up. "I should get going. Thank you for dinner, Elizabeth, Peter." He puts distance between them, heading for the door, seeing them exchange glances, seeing Elizabeth smile smugly.

In the time it takes him to retrieve his hat Elizabeth has already made it to the door. She's standing just in front of it, smiling at him while she blocks his escape route. "Neal, why don't you stay?"

He shakes his head. "Thank you, Elizabeth, but you don't want me underfoot the whole night." He glances over at Peter, who is standing with his arms folded. "Peter's probably had enough of me anyway," he says with a forced laugh.

But El doesn't move from in front of the door. She just smiles at him and smiles and he detects something very predatory in the gleam of her eyes. "Nonsense," she says. "We'd love to have you stay."

"I really appreciate—," he begins, and then stops when he feels Peter's hand wrap around his wrist. He meets the other man's gaze, feeling that damn blush rise higher. From the curve of Peter's lips he can tell that his friend is amused.

"Stay," Peter says, and Neal has never truly appreciated how sensual that slightly husky voice can sound. He swallows hard, too aware of the fingers still wrapped around his wrist, of the thumb that just slightly brushes against his skin.

"I—." He looks to Elizabeth, who is definitely starting to look like a cat with her eyes fixed hungrily on a mouse. "You two will probably want to be alone," he says, trying to regain his cool. She rolls her eyes, shaking her head.

"You're supposed to be a criminal mastermind, Neal." She says gently. "Do you really need it spelled out for you?"

He swallows again and gives her a charming grin, one that is cracking at the seams to show the insecurity underneath. "I'm afraid so." She gives him a wicked grin, and then presses close, one hand skimming up to rest at the back of his neck.

"Stay," she says, echoing Peter, and then she kisses him. Her kiss is soft and sweet and holds the promise of more, the promise of _everything. _She pulls back and he looks at Peter, nervous, his heart pounding. Peter hasn't let go of his wrist yet, and now he tugs him over. Unlike Elizabeth, Peter is taller. The angles of his body are harder and strong, and Neal revels in the distinction between them.

Peter's grin is no less wicked than the one belonging to his wife. "Are you going to listen to my wife, or do you need more persuading?"

He grins, tilting his head to the side. "I definitely think I need more persuading."

Elizabeth giggles. "That can be arranged."

* * *

The next set of ten will be up as soon as I'm finished writing it!


	2. 11 Through 20

A/N: You know, these are surprisingly hard to write. Well, welcome to the next set of ten. These took me a while and I'm honestly not as happy with them as I am the first. I'm not sure why; I might be the songs or just a touch of writer's block. Anyway, thank you to my lovely reviewers (and lurkers)! I'll give warnings for slash again, just in case someone missed it the first time around. Although, all things considered, this set is light on the slash, and is surprisingly Kate-centric. Which is interesting, considering how much I dislike her. I kind of think I'm starting to like her though, which is weird. And funny, given the ending of _Out of the Box_. And speaking of that episode, there are once again spoilers, particularly in this set of drabbles. Okay, ramblings done? I think so! Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Again, I do not own any of the songs or anything remotely related to White Collar. Well, I do own the songs on iTunes, but that doesn't count, now does it?

**11. Can't Stop Now—Keane **

Until that moment where he's standing between Peter and the plane that will take him away with Kate, he never realizes how much he's missed.

He's been focused so much on _Kate, Kate, KateKateKate_, like she's the only thought in his head, the only thing that has ever been important to him in the world. He's forgotten that there was a world before Kate, and he never wants to admit that there might be a world after her. But he's been so focused on _her_, on finding her, on saving her (_screw whatever Mozzie or Peter might say about it, this isn't a game and she does need to be saved)_, on that bright and shiny future that he _wants _so badly…and the world has been passing around him without him even noticing.

He's missed so much. All those things that have slipped around the edges of his comprehension hit him now as he stands between the future and the present. The slightly bitter tone in Mozzie's voice, that sigh of reluctant acceptance. The look in June's eyes, the one that doesn't _tell _but instead _asks _him not to make the wrong decision.

The look in Peter's eyes. All of the expressions that have danced across Peter's face, and the nuances of his body language, and _how _did he miss that? What's so obvious to him in this moment…how didn't he see it before?

Knowing it now, realizing it now, it makes him hesitate.

And then the world explodes behind him, and none of it matters after all.

* * *

**12. Butterfly—Jason Mraz **

He's watching her. She knows it, can feel his gaze slipping over her, can feel it almost as vividly as a hand skimming over her skin, tracing the contours of her cheeks and her neck, her shoulders and her waist and the curve of her thigh. She shivers a little, imagining that touch against her skin now, imagining that he isn't just drawing his gaze over her but actually _touching _her.

His fingers are long and delicate and more talented than she can believe. He _is _an artist, after all. Her breath catches in her throat, imagining those fingers and what they can _do_. She can feel them, cupping her cheek, moving over her lips and they part, beckoning, welcoming. God, it's hard to breathe when those hands are touching her like _that_. And they're slipping lower, lower, _lower_….

"El?" Her eyes snap open wide. "You're looking a little flushed," Neal says, smiling at her.

She swallows and then licks her lips, smiling. "Just fine, Neal." His smile brightens and then he turns to say something to her husband, but she's not listening anymore, just looking at his hands instead.

Now, where was she…?

* * *

**13. Take Me As I Am—Wyclef Jean (Love Actually)**

"Peter, what the _hell _is this?"

Peter looks over at Neal, craning his neck to see what exactly the man is referring to. He has the disgusted look on his face, the one where his lip curls and his eyebrows try to hide in his hairline and his eyes are disbelieving. "What are you talking about?"

Neal points—rather dramatically, as though this great offense should be clearly obvious to everyone in the world—to something at his feet. He sits up a little and tilts his head. "Looks like a pair of socks."

Neal folds his arms. "Yes," he says slowly, "a pair of _your _socks. Your cheap fabric, dollar store, _unwashed_, _foul-_smelling socks."

"Is there really any need for the slurs against my socks? Just because they're not argyle or something—."

"_Peter_. Why are these socks on _my _floor?"

"Ya know, it's actually _June's _floor."

Neal just gives him one of those _looks_, the one that says _Why are you arguing with me? _and scowls at him. "Why are they here, on my floor? You're already _wearing _socks. Therefore these have _been _here. Why are you leaving unwashed socks on my floor?"

"Is it that big a deal?"

Neal's eyes go dangerously wide. "Yes!" He puts his hands on his hips. "I am not your _wife_, Peter!"

He tilts his head to the side, considering. "Are you sure? Because you're channeling her pretty well right now."

"Why do I put up with you?" Neal says, throwing his hands in the air.

He grins cheekily. "'Cause I'm just so darn cute, puddin'."

Neal scowls at him and stalks away, muttering something about something. He just grins and props his feet up on the coffee table, turning the sound on the tv up.

* * *

**14. God of Wine—Third Eye Blind **

They don't let him go home. Or, rather, they _(Peter, and Elizabeth though she isn't physically there, she's just a shadow on the pavement but her influence is in Peter's hand) _don't let him go back to June's house and that empty apartment. There's nothing of _him _there, after all, not really. Just the remnants of a lost husband and a few pointless objects that wouldn't fit into the bag now discarded on the pavement somewhere. He doesn't _have _a home. A home requires permanence of a sort; knickknacks and pictures and people who love you and you love back.

His home is in flames that are finally starting to yield to the forces of water, flames that have consumed all they can and are now content to recede. Leaving him with nothing.

But they won't let him go to that empty apartment. When he stops screaming _(he's not sure when his throat goes raw and the words stop coming out, just feels his silence like a phantom limb) _Peter guides him gently away, settles him in the car, and drives. The world blurs outside the windows and he doesn't even know it, doesn't even acknowledge it.

For him, the world is still bursting into flames. Over and over. He thinks that Peter is trying to say something to him, but he doesn't hear. They pull up to the house and Elizabeth is standing on the stoop, her hand pressed to her chest as though she is trying to feel her heartbeat. He wonders if her heart is racing, when his own seems to be slowing so much it might just cease to beat altogether. The engine shuts off and he doesn't move. He doesn't remember what movement is. He doesn't know what anything is, except for flames and the heat and the way that metal sounds when it's burning and the way everything turns to black in the end.

Elizabeth reaches his door and opens it. She doesn't smile _(what is a smile, anyway? Just a motion, just muscles moving in a certain trained pattern)_, and he's surprised to see the smear of her mascara on her cheeks. Who is she crying for?

She takes his hand and draws him from the vehicle. She holds his hand all the way into the house, tugging him forward step by step, and he feels Peter behind him, not touching but somehow still pushing him forward. The door closes behind them and he's standing in the middle of their living room, taking in the details of their home as though he's never seen any of it before. Now Elizabeth is trying to say something, but he's just staring at the pictures on the wall. They're happy there, in that far off place. Everything is happy there.

She grabs his head, turning him to look at her. She's strong, even though he's not fighting her. He can feel the strength in her hands. He can see it in her eyes. "_Neal_," she says. Maybe she sees that he's listening now, because something fades from her eyes. He thinks that it's fear that he sees fading, that he sees still there buried like a glowing ember beneath a layer of coal. "Neal," she says softer.

He can smell smoke. It's him, he realizes, him and Peter. It's in their clothing, it's in their skin. His arms are dark with soot, and probably blood. He thinks that there was an EMT trying to check him over earlier, but he doesn't really remember. He blinks at Elizabeth, tries to hear what she's saying, but he's overpowered by the smoke. It's choking him.

"Elizabeth," someone says. Maybe it's him. Maybe it's the puppeteer pulling the strings. "I'd like to take a shower." She blinks, steps back; the fear lights up again. Why? She nods a little, looks over his shoulder to Peter. He doesn't wait for permission, just slouches towards the stairs, moves upwards. He knows the layout of the house the way he knows the lines of a Picasso. From below he can hear the hushed whispers; upstairs he fumbles his way into the bathroom. He closes the door and sheds his clothing, peeling away the layers. His favorite white shirt? Worthless. Singed, torn, stained. He sheds everything, lets them fall to the floor, then steps into the shower. He stares blankly at the knobs. How do they work? How does anything work?

His body still knows the motions, even if he doesn't. The water pours down, cold at first then warm then scalding. He closes his eyes, lets it pour over him and clear everything away. Burn everything away.

The flames are still going, are still bursting up into the sky. Over and over.

Burning away everything that meant anything.

He doesn't realize that he's not standing until he opens his eyes and finds himself crumpled against the wall. He curls into himself and stays there, until the warm water turns cold. Until there's a knock at the door, until they call his name and when he doesn't answer they open the door. Peter turns off the water and covers him with a towel and Elizabeth finds new clothes _(they're Peters and they smell like him, and that's better than smoke, much better than smoke)_, and they dress him as though he's a child, and then they lead him down the hallway. They lead him into a bedroom _(it's their bedroom, with the contents of their life together) _and sit him on the bed and they don't talk, just stay with him.

Stay with him until the flames finally pull back and he crumbles like the charred remains of everything he was.

And they don't leave. Everything else leaves, but not them. Never them.

* * *

**15. Let It Be (Across the Universe)**

There are no more words between them. Just the broken remainders of what was and could have been and the truth of what is now. They barely look at each other. Those moments where their gazes meet they instantly tear away, because it hurts too much. Neal holds his hat in his hands, unmoving and unflinching, not daring to look up.

Peter goes through the motions of normal life, sliding into the driver's seat, turning on the car, waiting for the heater to come on and fiddling with the radio, searching for something and settling on a football game. He moves to shift the car into drive and then doesn't, pausing halfway through the motion, his hand hovering over the stick. He pulls his hand back and puts them both on the steering wheel, staring out the windshield.

Neal watches him. "Peter, I'm sorry."

Peter doesn't look at him. _Refuses _to. _Can't_.

"I—I'm so sorry."

Peter raises a hand, stopping him, still not looking at him. "Just…don't." He puts the car into drive and pulls away from the curb, and the silence falls between them again. Neal leans his head against the cold window pane, watching the city blur by.

Some things can't be fixed.

Knowing that doesn't make it hurt any less.

* * *

**16. Carry This Picture—Dashboard Confessional **

"Peter? Why is there a picture of me in your wallet?"

He looks up sharply, staring at Neal, who is slouching in his chair, feet propped up on the coffee table. The wallet is in his hands and he holds it up, eyebrows raised. Peter scowls.

"Why do you have my wallet?"

"Why do you have a picture of me _in _your wallet?" As if to prove his point Neal works the picture out of the fold in the wallet and holds it up. "It was right behind the one of El that you keep in here." Neal looks at the picture in question, tilting his head the side. "Where did you get this anyway? It's not a picture I recognize."

"I have my ways," Peter says with a shrug.

"And the reason why you carry it with you everywhere…?"

He glares. "So that I have it right at hand if you try anything stupid and I need to put out an APB."

Neal raises an eyebrow, his lips curling upwards. "Mhm," he says, and Peter blushes.

"Oh, shut up." He snaps. "And stop stealing my wallet, you pickpocket."

* * *

**17. De-Railed—Scary Kids Scaring Kids**

He listens to what she's saying, and he doesn't believe it. He wants to jump across the barrier between them—_God, he __**hates **__prison—_and take her in his arms and sweep all of her words away and pretend that she never spoke them.

As it is he's trapped here, behind these barriers, with these guards and these cameras and these constantly watching eyes, and she's _there_. She's free and he's in the cage he created for himself. She's walking away, and he's not even free to try and stop her.

This isn't the way it's supposed to go.

This isn't the way things are supposed to end. This can't be the way it ends.

But she turns and walks away and he's still here, staring after her. He bangs his fist on the glass, but it doesn't yield. She has the freedom to walk away, but he doesn't even have the freedom to try and protest her departure.

Is it just him, or are the walls closing in?

* * *

**18. Hold Me Tight (Across the Universe)**

Neal Caffrey has been in several rather tight embraces with various people over the years. He knows instinctively how to drape his arms around a woman, how his body fits against soft curves, where his hands should go and how to drift his hands over the small of her back. He knows how to make a woman feel safe in his arms, knows how to make her heart race, knows how to comfort her, knows how to hold her tight in the hollow of his body.

But with Peter…with Peter he's on unchartered territory. He doesn't know where to put his hands, doesn't know whether he should put his arms around those broad shoulders or around the narrower waist. He doesn't know how to fit his body against the harder planes of Peter's form, and he doesn't know how to convey emotions with a touch of his hand. He doesn't know how to hold on, or how to show his protectiveness. He just knows that his motions are jerky and awkward and he's out of his element.

Peter though, seems to know it all. He seems to know just how to drape his arm so that it feels natural, knows how their bodies fit together perfectly, knows how to pull him into that warm cocoon and make him feel safe and sheltered from the elements. Peter knows how to make his heart race and how to comfort him and how to hold him so tightly he feels like he's going to break.

And slowly but surely, he learns too.

* * *

**19. Slow Motion—Third Eye Blind **

The look on Peter's face when he snaps the rifle up and smoothly hits every flying disc is almost comical in a way. He sees all the little emotions—the concern, the confusion, the challenge that is surely a reflection of his own gaze—but it's that little crease of surprise that gets him. Peter didn't know he could shoot a gun so damn well, now did he?

And that's nothing more than a testament to how good Neal Caffrey really is at what he does: becoming someone else. There's nothing of Neal Caffrey—the soft art thief, the conman with a heart of gold, the white collar criminal who doesn't like guns or blood or death—that hints at who came before. There's no hint in who he is now to who he was then, no trace of that metaphorical blood on his hands. Peter Burke doesn't even know he can shoot a gun, much lest suspect that he might be Lady Macbeth, trying to wash away her sin even now.

* * *

**20. Think of Me—Phantom of the Opera**

She knew she was going to lose him long before she ever walked away. This, now, this desperate, manipulative plan…it's just a last ditch effort to keep him. It's a way to keep him distracted, and maybe he won't realize what's true, won't realize what's been in front of him for years.

Maybe she's selfish. She doesn't deny it. Hell, she's willing to lead him around in circles, convincing him to 'save' her, just so that she can see that light in his eyes when he looks at her, the one that says she's beautiful and perfect to him. He's the person who can't seem to see through her, even though she feels as transparent as steam rising from a boiling pot. And she does love him _(maybe)_, after all. Just…not as much as he loves her. Just not as much as he deserves.

But she's going to lose him. It's the thought that beats along with her heart, drumming steadily in the back of her mind. She can fool herself for as long as she wants—and she can fool _him _too—but she knows she'll lose him in the end. She's watched him pull away from her, little by little, without him even knowing. And she knows _exactly _who's to blame.

Because, of course, Peter Burke can see through her a lot more clearly than Neal can.

She thinks that it's going to work, right up until that moment where Peter appears behind him, where he slows, jolts for a moment back into motion, then pauses again, like a sputtering car engine trying to decide if it can make those last few feet up the hill. When he turns away—_away from her and towards __**him**__—_she turns her head away.

She doesn't want to watch him walk away.

But she does hope that he's happy.

_

* * *

_

The last three were the hardest ones to write. Could you tell? Reviews are lovely gifts, and will probably make the next set come faster!


	3. 21 Through 30

A/N: Why hello, folks! It's been awhile, hasn't it? Sorry about that. I got bogged down in finals and school and the last three drabbls tried to murder me in my sleep (again). But this set is _finally _done and here for your enjoyment! For some reason there is quite a lot of Kate in this set, or at the very least quite a lot of Neal thinking about Kate. And the last three absolutely _killed _me. Again. Just like last time. But whatever. Thanks to all of my lovely reviewers and those of you who put this on alert or favorites! Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Well...I own all the songs on iTunes. And, and...I have _White Collar _episodes taped. Does that count? No. No it does not.

**21. (Can't Get My) Head Around You—The Offspring **

Peter imagines a conversation with Neal. It's right after he catches the kid for the first time, and Neal looks at him with those bright blue eyes and a smile right on the verge of dying out. "So, where'd I go wrong?"

"You mean this time, or in general?"

Neal shrugs. "Let's go with in general."

"How about turning to a life of crime? That might have been your biggest mistake, Caffrey."

He shrugs again. It's like he's shifting a weight from shoulder to shoulder, searching for the comfortable position when none exists. "Eh. I really think my mistake was in going so big. That's when I started getting attention. I could have played it low key, and I'd probably still be out there. Of course, I would be scraping by, probably living in a garrett, having to work a job in a mini-mart or something like that…."

Peter shakes his head, frustrated. "Dammit Caffrey, I don't get you. You're _smart_—,"

"Why thank you."

"You're smart and you have talent, so why would you throw it all away? You _knew _you would get caught eventually. You _had _to know that. Why do it in the first place? You could have gone to college, could have been anything you wanted to."

"You know, I _have _gone to college. I don't have a degree or anything, but I _have _taken classes."

He wants to strangle the kid. "Then why are you sitting next to me in handcuffs?"

Neal shakes the handcuffs at him, grinning. "You're the one into bondage, Agent Burke. You could just slip me the key and…."

"Nice try. But _why_, Caffrey? Every job you pulled, what was it all for? For the money? For the fancy clothes and the nice cars and the priceless art? Was it so that you could fit into some sophisticated, wealthy world? I want to know why. Explain it to me, kid."

In this imagined conversation Neal gives him a dozen different reasons why, each one as plausible as the next. But in the real world Peter never asks, and sits at a desk staring across at his partner, and still wondering what the answer is to the question he never asked.

* * *

**22. Sweetest Goodbye/Sunday Morning—Maroon 5 (Love Actually Soundtrack)**

The blue of her eyes is even brighter when she's afraid. The moment he opens the door and sees her there in the middle of the room, her arms folded tightly over her chest, it confirms what he already knows. He closes the door quietly and gets to her faster than he ever has; he sweeps her into his arms, smelling the crisp floral scent of her shampoo. Her hands clutch his shirt so tightly he's half afraid that the fabric will just rip. He can't get arrested in a ripped shirt. It's just unseemly.

"They're outside," she whispers, her voice pitched low.

"I know," he says into her hair. "I saw Peter on the way in. He looked far too smug. I should have sent him a cheaper bottle of champagne." She shakes, making a sound that is somewhere between sob and laugh. "They'll probably be knocking in a few seconds."

She tilts her head up. "There's no way out."

He shakes his head. He's surprisingly calm, for a man about to be arrested by the FBI. Where's the racing heart, the sweaty palms? He licks his lips, looking at her. "I screwed up this time, Kate."

She doesn't disagree. The sharp knock at the door makes them jump away from each other, like teenagers being caught by a parent. He stares at her for a long moment, and then kisses her on the forehead. There's another sharp knock, and someone yelling his name, and he pulls away from her. He pauses in front of the door, hand on the knob. "Wait for me?"

Her smile is wavering, and her eyes are so very blue. "Of course."

He opens the door and gives Peter Burke his best charming smile.

"Why, how can I help you this fine evening, Agent Burke?"

* * *

**23. Believe Me Natalie—The Killers **

When he broaches his crazy idea to Peter he's praying the whole time. As a rule he doesn't really bother himself with the whole religion thing, and he doesn't spend his time praying, because if there is a God why would he care about a white collar criminal who got in over his head and is desperately trying to dig himself out now? But he's praying the whole time he outlines the plan to Peter, praying that the agent will take a chance. Just one, little chance.

And when Peter rejects him, it kills him. He shuffles back to cell and tries to tell himself that there will be other opportunities, that four years will pass like nothing. And he knows that every single thought is a damn lie, because if he spends one more minute in this cell he is going to go _crazy_. Screw patience; he _cannot _stand it a moment more. It's torture. It has been for the four years already spent, but at least then he had Kate, and now he has jackshit.

So when Peter _does _take the chance on him, he's not letting a single moment go by. And maybe miracles do happen, now and then.

* * *

**24. We Are Broken—Paramore **

In a lot of ways, Peter understands Kate Moreau better than he understands Neal Caffrey. Neal is like a child—not in that innocent, heart-of-gold kind of bullshit—but in the way that he sees the world as a giant game board. He carefully plans out his moves, is calculating, is completely capable of manipulating people and using them to his own ends, is capable of ruthlessness and of hurting people, and is constantly shifting persona. God only knows who the real Neal was, but he thinks he has a good grip on who Neal is _now_. And he really _is _well-meaning, when it suits his own agendas. He doesn't want people to get hurt, and he _does _want to help people, and he _does _care. He pretends to be the lovable heart-of-gold, well-intentioned-but-a-little-misguided criminal, and that's not too far from the truth.

But Kate…she's cunning. She's manipulative, far beyond even the capabilities of Neal Caffrey. She's ruthless and hard and she uses her pretty face like a weapon. Neal's charm is genuine, but Kate's is just a mask, hiding a whole lot more depth than she'd like to admit to. And for all the Peter understands Neal, there are times when he understands Kate a whole lot better.

Which is why he can read the messages in her eyes that night in the hotel room so easily. And, equally, it's how he _knows _that she understood the message _he _was giving her. He and Kate have been playing this little game for as long as he's been chasing after Neal, and they're reaching new levels of it now.

But if anyone wins the war, it's certainly _not _going to be her. He'll make sure of that.

* * *

**25. Steamer Trunk—Alkaline Trio **

Neal Caffrey is smart. Damn smart. That's what gets him into trouble, and he knows it and everyone knows it too. Generally his intelligence helps him talk his way out of sticky situations, or at the very least come up with a viable if less than sane plan.

Yet when it comes to Kate Moreau he seems to be the stupidest person on the planet. Everyone around him—Peter, June, Mozzie, hell _Elizabeth _and she's never even _met _Kate—they all know that Kate is playing him for the fool. They know that she's a liar, through and through, who sheds her skin like a snake and slips into the most convienent, comfortable persona. They all know, and when looking at Neal—who is so damn _smart_—they wonder how she ever could have fooled him, much less continue to fool him. And their protests—for there are _many _protests—seem to fall on deaf ears. Neal defends the virtue of his lady, refuses to even consider that what they say might be true.

No one ever considers the possibility that he might already _know_ all these things. No once considers that Neal Caffrey does not march blindly into anything, particularly a relationship. He knows _everything_, has everything tightly controlled. Nothing escapes his notice, nothing escapes his attention to detail. His existence depends upon an ability to read people, to judge their motivations and their honesty and their intelligence, and he is brilliant at what he does.

So of _course _he knows. He's just biding his time, waiting for the tides to shift and the advantage to fall into his hands. It's just easier to let everyone believe he's an idiot blinded by love. Things are less complicated that way.

* * *

**26. Armageddon—Alkaline Trio **

Neal doesn't like to think about things like his own mortality. He doesn't like to think about the possibility of getting caught either, though the latter seems to be increasingly possible, given the fanatical devotion of that new FBI agent—Burke, or something like that. Still, in his line of work he always runs the risk of coming up on the raw end of a deal. He tries to keep his jobs low-key and avoid violence, but he _is _a criminal, and others in the same business don't always have the same morals. He's run up against some pretty nasty characters in the past, had scrapes with guns and with thugs who have mob connections, and there's always potential for situations to go terribly, horribly wrong.

And there's always the potential that he'll slip up and the cops will be on him like ants on food at a picnic.

It's this ever lingering _potential _for disaster that makes him take certain provisions before the climax of every job. It's little things—a note hidden in a book for Kate; a letter waiting in the post office, ready to be sent to his mother if he doesn't call in to cancel the order within a week; a safety deposit box with a few choice items for Mozzie. Little things, just in case. If things go wrong—if he gets caught, if he gets hurt, if he has to lay low for a period of time, if he _dies_—he doesn't want to go without making sure the people he leaves behind know how much he cares.

When Peter finally brings him down there is a letter sent to his mother and a safety deposit box for Mozzie and an empty bottle of wine for Kate.

_(Four years later she leaves the same bottle of wine, and he knows exactly what it means.)_

* * *

**27. December 1963 (Oh What a Night)—Return to Zero **

The song is playing in the background the first time he meets Kate. It's a song he loves, and he finds it particularly fitting considering what comes of meeting Kate Moreau, so he files it in his mind as _their _song. He mentally tags it as _Kate, _and he'll never be able to hear it again without thinking of her.

He plays it in the background of their one year anniversary, and she smiles brilliantly when he explains _why _it is playing. She folds into his arms as though she is meant to be there and has never belonged anywhere else.

About three days after Kate declares that she is leaving, one of the inmates is humming the song. It's almost funny, that this burly tattooed criminal is humming this random love song from the 70's. But Neal just wants to punch him, anything to get him to _stop humming the damn song_. He stops himself from doing something incredibly stupid, but now the sound is in his head and it refuses to leave, looping through his memory as a litany of _gone, gone, gone_.

After he is released from prison into Peter's "custody" he hears the song everywhere. It comes on the radio. It plays in June's house. It's someone's ringtone—why in the hell does someone have _that _as a ringtone? It comes on the radio again and again and again. It plays over the speakers in the supermarket when he gets dragged there by El. Everywhere he turns it seems to be there, and every time it is like a slap, a sharp reminder. Eventually Peter notices that he flinches every time he hears it, that he flips it off when he can. Eventually, Peter asks. His reply, as he stares out the window, is the one answer that is always is: _Kate_.

The first time that he hears it after he realizes that the Kate he knows is as fake as the Hamilton painting hanging in the Met _(and he would know since he forged it) _is sitting in Peter's living room. As it turns out, El plays her _The Four Seasons _CD endlessly when she spring cleans. He grits his teeth through it the first time, but by the second time he wants to jump out of his skin. He makes it a point to try and escape, but the sound filters through the entire house, even outside. And each time he tries to get away Peter eventually draws him back. By this time El knows—of _course _she knows, she's Elizabeth and Peter wouldn't exactly leave her out of the loop—and when he walks through the door and the damn song is playing again she grabs his arm. She pulls him close, slipping her arms around his waist and her hand into his, drawing him into a dance position. He falls into the position almost unconsciously and she pulls him into the motions of a dance, something slow and sweet and sensuous, and he almost doesn't notice that he's dancing to _the _song.

"What are you doing?" He asks, looking down at her. She smiles up, then rests her head on his chest.

"Making you forget," she replies. And while it's a nice sentiment he can't exactly _forget_. There's nothing groundbreaking about him dancing to this song with a dark-haired, blue-eyed woman, even if El is sugar where Kate is poison. But then hands that are too broad to belong to Elizabeth—and her hands are firmly on his waist anyway—touch his hips and there is a tall presence against his back. And suddenly he is pressed between Elizabeth and Peter, the three of them swaying to the music, and no, maybe he can't _forget_, but surely this is an improvement.

At least he'll be able to hear the damn song without flinching.

* * *

**28. Days Go By—Lifehouse**

Before Peter destroys his life, Neal Caffrey thinks that he has everything. Anything that he desires can be _his_, with a little work and a little charm and just the right plan. He has Mozzie—who is the closest thing he has ever had to a best friend, even if he can't really _trust _the short, neurotic man. And, in his opinion, trust is overrated. What could possess someone to place their fate willingly into the hands of another person? He is Neal Caffrey—he makes his _own _fate. And he has _Kate_.

So despite all the little flaws—the crappy apartment, the greasy take-out night after night, the two sets of cotton sheets that are all he and Kate can afford, the FBI van tailing him—Neal still believes that he has everything. He exists in a crappy apartment for _now_; but soon, very soon, he'll have the world and he'll be able to forget these little hardships. He and Kate will live in a mansion and sleep on silk and they'll laugh at all the silly people who are content with their white picket fences and suburbs and laws and morals.

And then…Peter comes swooping in and he _destroys _everything. Neal's dreams slip right out of his head and through the steel bars that trap him and he's left staring at a cinder block ceiling. In prison Neal decides that he did have _everything_, and that he'll do _anything _to get it back. And when Kate leaves he does do anything. Who cares if it ends with him in prison for another four years? If he has Kate he'll endure.

But he doesn't get her. She slips away just like his dreams, and he knows that if he stays trapped in this cage of his everything that he is will just fade, until he is nothing more than a stone fixture sitting against a wall. It's fear that drives him to propose his plan to Peter. And when the FBI agent takes the bait he fully intends to flee. He's Neal Caffrey, who does not trust and cannot be trusted; he had everything and it was taken, and he intends to get it back.

After ten minutes in Peter's company he starts to change his mind. After one day of working for the FBI he starts to think that he should at least finish out this case. After a week with Peter, and the completion of their first case, he thinks that maybe he should stick around for a while. With FBI resources it would be easier to find Kate, after all. After a month he wonders if he really had everything he wanted before, or if maybe, possibly, he was missing out on a few things.

After two months he starts to get used to the quiet suburban bliss that Peter and El enjoy.

After three months he begins to covet it.

After four months he stops dreaming about Kate, and dreams of Peter and Elizabeth and even Satchmo.

After a year he knows that he didn't have everything before.

But he does have it now.

* * *

**29. Mea Culpa—The Human Abstract **

He doesn't understand how deeply he is in over his head until it's _far _too late. He doesn't understand until the gunshots pop in the air. _(How absurd is it to think that gunshots sound like a bag of popcorn on steroids popping at a hundred miles a minute? He should be thinking about not getting shot, but no, he's thinking about popcorn.) _He doesn't understand until there is a gun in his hand, weighing down his arm like a lead anchor, trying to drag him down into the depths of something.

But he does understand when Peter's body jerks. _(Once, during a job, he was watching Mozzie rewire an alarm system. Moz put the wrong circuit in the wrong place and his hand was in the way and when the live wire came in contact with his skin his body jerked and spasmed just like Peter's body now. Only Peter hasn't been electrocuted. He knows because he can see the blood, which stains Peter's white shirt pink at the edges of the wound, but is so dark in the center it's like looking into a black hole.) _He understands when Peter reels back and the whites of his eyes are brilliant and his eyes are almost black because his pupils are so wide. He understands when Peter clenches his jaw and tries stiffen his arm and raise the gun and another shot rips into him, right into his shoulder.

He understands how deep in shit they both are—and how it is _all his fault_—when Peter crashes to the ground. (_There's no earth-shattering sound, and the world doesn't quake when Peter's body meets the concrete, but he really feels like there should be. The entire world should quiver and shake, because __**he **__certainly is.) _He understands when he blinks and suddenly finds himself at Peter's side, as though through teleportation, 'cause he doesn't remember moving in the slightest. He understands as he touches Peter gently, and the man groans; understands when the sounds of footsteps echo on the concrete behind him and he can feel the vibrations of doom approaching.

He understands when there is the sound of a gun clicking behind him, and when he reacts instantly. (_He understands as)_ He lifts his arm _(pulling up that anchor) _and pulls the trigger and jerks from the recoil and hears the yelp of pain.

Most of all, he understands how wrong things have gone when he presses his hands against the wound and feels the blood slick and slippery and closes his eyes and whispers that _You'll be fine, Peter, absolutely fine, El will kill you if you're not, __**I'll **__kill you if your not _and _God this my fault, I'm sorry._

_(The sirens wail in the distant, drawing closer and closer; he just presses down and whispers promises and hopes that they won't crumble the way everything else has.)_

* * *

**30. The Briar and the Rose—Niamh Parsons and the Loose Connections**

The entire time he works with the FBI he never onces dreams of Kate. His dreams a bright and vivid and they burn away the minute his eyes fly open.

But the moment he cuts his anklet and drifts to the four corners of the world, hiding in shadow and trying to focus on Kate and this new life of his. He doesn't want to _forget _everything else, per say, but it would certainly make things simpler.

His dreams don't seem to agree. Every night—_every damn night_—he dreams of Peter and Elizabeth. He dreams don't disappear; instead they linger, tormenting him. He sleeps fitfully, waking, and every time he closes his eyes there is Peter. Peter and Elizabeth, Mozzie and June and Jones and Diana and all of the people that he abandoned.

He doesn't like the guilt. He's never felt guilty in his life before, despite the crimes he has committed. But now, when he has stolen nothing, when he has done nothing but choose freedom—_yeah right, _his mind says—the guilt plagues him and the dreams refuse to allow respite from the feeling.

Sometimes he dreams so vividly that he thinks they're real, that he thinks he is sitting in Peter's house with Satchmo sprawled at his feet and Elizabeth setting out plates and Peter yelling at him to get up and _do_ something, and then he wakes with Kate stirrring next to him and guilt gnawing at him from the inside. _(He doesn't like to admit it, but sometimes—many times—he wishes that the dream __**was **__real, because he'd rather be there than wherever he is now.) _

The dreams continue for three months.

The day that they stop is the day he comes home, stands on Peter's doorstep, and walks back into the place where he belongs.

* * *

No promises on when the next set will appear, but hopefully it will be quicker this time! Reviews?


	4. 31 Through 40

_A/N: _Well...what can I say? It's been, what, two months since I posted the last set? So much for getting them up quickly, haha. I think the premiere of _White Collar _last night (OMG IT WAS SO GOOD AHHH) pushed me to get this set _done _at long last. And after this there's only one more. _One _set of ten and it's _over. _At last. Thanks to all of my reviewers, and sorry for the wait! Enjoy!

**31. If I Fell—Evan Rachel Wood (Across the Universe) **

For a long time Elizabeth Burke thinks she is in competition with Neal Caffrey for her husband. She'd never met the apparently handsome and charming young white collar criminal, but she'd glared holes into surveillance pictures of him while her husband was off chasing _him_ rather than eating dinner with _her_. Then she _does _meet him, and her view of the situation changes. In person, Neal is even more attractive than his pictures, and it's his personality that really makes him smoking hot. The pictures don't capture the mischievous tilt of his smile, or the charm of his voice, or the way his eyes light up from inside. After meeting him, El knows that she isn't in a competition for _Peter_.

She's in it for _Neal_.

And not with Peter. He's not her contender. She sees the way her husband looks at the man and knows instantly that under other circumstances she would still be fighting Neal for Peter's attention, for Peter's love. But no, she loves Peter and she has more than enough room in her heart to also love Neal. She's perfectly willing to make a nice little hollow in their home, in their relationship, that Neal will slide right into. He'll click into place and everything will be perfect.

If only she—_they_, her and Peter—can win Neal.

And the problem is Kate.

El has no doubts that Neal does love Kate. What she does doubt is how much Kate returns the feeling. She's seen the surveillance pictures of the woman as well, but she's never paid attention to them. Now she digs them out, staring at them, searching for signs that she's a lying, backstabbing, traitorous ho. Anything that will give her ammunition in this unsaid war. Of course, surveillance photos don't tell the whole story, or capture the whole person.

She ignores Kate, and sets out to draw Neal in, little by little. Between her efforts and Peter's efforts he comes, dragging his feet a little, looking over his shoulder as though Kate will be right there. But he enters permanently into their lives, taking that place that they have set out just for him. He doesn't click though. He holds back, she holds back, and they're both waiting for Kate to show up and destroy everything. By this point, she knows that Peter is in love too deep for him to ever get out, and she's sure that Neal returns the feelings, but she's not so sure of where she stands.

She doesn't want to love him, if he's going to run off and abandon them at the first flash of Kate's pretty blue eyes. _(Privately she thinks that her own eyes are prettier, but that's just petty, isn't it?)_

Finally, it reaches a point, and she can't bear to stay silent. She sends Peter off on an errand and corners Neal as he plays with Satchmo. She's shaking, standing with her arms folded, watching him. She's terrified that she too is already too far gone, and that both she and Peter will be left with their hearts in shambles. Neal is a thief, after all.

"Neal?"

He looks up, eyes laughing. When he sees her, he frowns. "What's wrong Elizabeth?"

She licks her lips. "I—I need to know something."

He tilts his head and stands, stepping towards her. "What? You can ask me anything. I'll even try to tell the truth," he says, easy smile inviting her to be happy.

She doesn't know how to say what she needs to be said. "Are you going to leave?"

He's confused. She sees it in the tilt of his head, in the pout of his lips, in the way his eyes narrow just a little. "No…?"

She shakes her head and tries to stop shaking. Damn involuntary muscle spasms. He reaches out and touches her arm, frowning more when he feels her trembling. "Elizabeth, what's this about?"

She meets his gaze. "Do you love us?" She uses the word _us_, but really, she means _me_. She already knows he loves Peter. Anyone with eyes knows that.

"Of course I do!"

"More than her?"

His eyes go wide with understanding, and then he steps forward and pulls her into his chest and presses a kiss to her forehead. "Yes," he says, with no hesitation and no cloudiness, and for all that he's a damned good con-artist and practiced liar, she doesn't think that he could fake this. _(God she hopes he's not faking.)_ "I—you're _real_, El. She's not." He kisses her cheek and whispers in her ear: "I'm not running away."

Then he kisses her on the lips and the tightly wound tension drains from her body.

_Bring it on, Kate. He's ours now, and you can't have him back. _

* * *

**32. I'm Dying Tomorrow—Alkaline Trio**

His life doesn't flash before his eyes when the bullet enters his chest. There's no montage of memories sliding through his mind as Peter bends over him, pressing hands to his bleeding wound; the flurry of paramedics and the jolting ride in the ambulance all happen in crisp, vivid clarity.

He passes out just before they reach the hospital, and when he comes to, he's blinking up at a white ceiling with a heart monitor counting time. Peter is crumpled in a chair, resting his head on the edge of the bed. El is asleep in another chair right next to her husband; she is strung between them, one of her hands holding his, the other reaching across and gripping Peter's hand. As he stirs his hand twitches, an involuntary muscle spasm as he comes out of his medicated stupor and the motion wakes her. Her hand clenches his—the motion just as involuntary as his own—and her head jerks up and she meet his eyes with a watery smile before she launches into motion, waking Peter and calling for nurses and doctors and the room floods with people.

It's only later that his life plays itself out in front of him. He wakes from a morphine-induced sleep and lies in the darkened empty room. _(Peter and Elizabeth were convinced—read: prodded, pushed, thrown out—to leave at last, but promised to return first thing in the morning.) _The memories, when they come, run like strips of film, a little jerky, unconnected, the pieces of a movie without any of the polishing. Maybe he's dreaming, as the pictures swim in front of him. Drugs do tend to have odd effects on the mind, and maybe this is a drug-induced manifestation, his subconscious throwing a fit about his tendency to put himself in dangerous situations.

Whatever it is, the memories are bright and colorful and his life plays itself out in front of him. He's not sure what he thinks about what he sees. There is the first con he ever pulls, the first forgery, the first theft; there is the first time he meets Mozzie, then Kate, then Peter Burke. There is the job that gets him caught; there is the trial; there is his first night in prison and all the ones that follow. There is the last time he sees Kate. There is Peter, again, brighter; there is Elizabeth and Satchmo, June and Jones and Lauren and Diana.

There, at the end, is the life he _wants _and never even knew he didn't have. It's not a life filled with stolen paintings and lavish surroundings and Kate's bright eyes. Instead, it's a quaint little home and two people offering him a place that he slides right into.

He wakes in the morning to find them both there, almost as though they'd never left. Peter asks him how he's doing, then proceeds berates him and threatens him with painful sounding punishments if he _ever_ puts himself in danger again; El swats her husband on the shoulder, but the look she gives him says virtually the same thing. They stay with him until a fire-breathing nurse kicks them out, saying that FBI credentials or no FBI credentials visiting hours are _over_ and they can come back _tomorrow_. El glares at the nurse so hard he half-thinks that the woman will burst into flames, but in the end, the nurse gets her way. Peter pats him on the shoulder and El kisses him on the forehead, and they promise to be back as soon as they can.

And he knows that they will.

* * *

**33. Somewhere Only We Know—Keane **

Neal Caffrey fancies himself a fortress, one that no one can penetrate. On the outside, he is charming and warm and with one smile from him, people think they are his best friend, think that he is someone they can trust their life's secrets to. Neal gets under other people's skin. He gets into their head and their heart and knows every little nook and cranny there. But he doesn't let anyone in. He doesn't let anyone breach _his _walls. It has a lot to do with trust, and his distinct lack-there-of.

Of course, Neal isn't _quite _as good at keeping people out as he'd like to think. His walls have cracks in them, minute fissures that the people in his life squirm their way through. Mozzie does it. June is starting to. Jones is on the outside of the walls, searching for the cracks. Elizabeth is half-way through and shows no desire to quit there.

Kate got inside. It's debatable as to whether he let her in or if she just broke him down enough to make a hole big enough for her to squeeze through. But she got inside, and once there she danced around and threw off the balance and structure of things and grew like ivy on the interior walls. She got inside and made herself right at home. But that doesn't mean she was invited in. Neal Caffrey doesn't _invite _people into his life, and especially not into the inner sanctum that is his true self.

Peter is the exception. Peter starts breaking his way in with a chisel and a hammer, upgrades to a sledgehammer, and finally resorts to a battering ram. He makes it through the first couple of walls with sheer blunt force, before Neal finally flings open the doors and lets him in. There's no keeping Peter out, and he knows it eventually. So he gives up on trying to keep him out, opens the door wide, and lets Peter in. It takes a while—a _long _while—but in the end Peter is the one who is invited and Kate is just the criminal who broke in through the window. She has no right to be there.

But Peter belongs.

* * *

**34. Sing for the Moment—Eminem **

The problem with Neal is he's always looking for the next move, for the next plot, the next scheme; he's three moves ahead of everyone else and already plotting for the next ten. And that means that he doesn't live for _now_. He doesn't take pleasure in the actions, just goes through the motions with his head in the clouds thinking about what comes next.

That's not how Mozzie lives. Of course, Neal Caffrey isn't the only person in the world capable of living with every moment and detail planned—Mozzie is _perfectly _capable, thank you very much—but who really wants to live like that? Mozzie lives right now. He pays attention to every little thing around him, keeping an eye on the authorities and an ear on the gossip, always ready to get up and run. That's the nice thing about his life; he can just up and leave and no one will blink. Neal is always ready to run too, but the kid can't just quietly slip out. No, everything has to have that added drama with Neal, even though the kid doesn't _want _it.

But Mozzie, he lives right now. Outside the edges of conformity, not caring about what the normal people think. He lives in a storage unit—_and Neal's underhanded comments about his housing just amuse him, 'cause he knows what's really important—_and he pulls jobs whenever he needs a little added income. He lives right on the border between the criminal world and the world where people scurry around like little robots to the Man.

And, God, he loves living there. He does what he does, is what his, lives the way he _wants_, and that's all he needs.

* * *

**35. The Ocean—The Bravery**

Neal runs. And this time, when he does it, he means it. He means to be gone. He means to never return. He finds the edge of the world and tumbles off it; he burns away like droplets of water hitting heated pavement. He stands under a showerhead somewhere in the world and washes Neal Caffrey away, scraping with short nails until his skin is bright pink and he is no longer _Neal _or _Caffrey _or anything remotely resembling either. He abandons everything when he runs. He leaves them all behind, scratching their heads, wondering why they didn't see it coming. Even Mozzie. Particularly Peter. Kate is already gone.

He moves. He never stays in the same place long, he never plays the same person, and he never lets himself make attachments. He hides his tracks well, burying every hint of his existence carefully. He doesn't want to be found. He's sure that Peter scours every inch of the earth for him, but he manages to evade. He does _not _want to be found, and so they do not find him.

Neal Caffrey—the one who existed before, the one he has erased, the one who now has no name and no identity and is wind gently tracing the earth without touching it—dies. Whoever he was is gone so thoroughly that it as though he never existed at all. But the morphing shell of who he is_—was, can be—_retains one thing from the old. It's Peter, a fading image of him that keeps stirring around in his head. The longer he loses himself in becoming nothing the more the features of the image blur. He can't quite remember the exact color of Peter's eyes or the quirk of his mouth; he doesn't remember the placement of freckles on Peter's neck or the pattern of his favorite tie.

He wonders, sometimes, if the details would all come flooding down if he were to go back.

But he doesn't, and the memory just continues to dull until it's nothing more than a silhouette.

* * *

**36. I Love College—Asher Roth**

Neal likes colleges. When he's a teenager, he sneaks onto the campuses and tries his hand at being older. He slips into classrooms and sits among people five, six, seven years older than him and he hides in plain sight among them. He listens to the teachers and learns about advanced subjects that he shouldn't even hear about for another two, three years. More importantly, he slithers his way into the sub-culture of the students, listening to their conversations, keeping an ear on the gossip and the underpinnings of the unique college society. He knows who throws the best parties, who got busted over the weekend for underage drinking, who hooked up with whom, which teachers are easy graders and which ones are assholes. He puts on the guise of a college student, goes to college parties, and learns how to become anyone. He learns from the best, because college students are, after all, masters of lying, bullshitting, sneaking around, social skills, parties, manipulation…it goes on. And he learns.

When he "grows up", college campuses provide new opportunities. They're easy marks for his early cons. He practices being younger, makes sure that he can still blend in and be _anyone_, even when he's now five, six, seven years older than everyone else around. He charms the professors and the students alike, plays games to see how many he can get to fall under his spell. He researches his jobs, lets the classes he sneaks into spark new ideas in him. And a college campus is the perfect place to hide. No one ever asks too many questions. He learns from the populace in a different way than when he was younger. He looks to the diversity, to the shining moments of intelligence and the delightful downpour of youthful stupidity. College is a wonderful mix of the naive, the brilliant, the stupid, the ignorant, the street-wise, the criminally-inclined, the straight-and-narrow.

So when a case pops up and it is necessary for someone to go undercover at a college campus, he cheerfully volunteers.

He is not, however, amused by Peter's choice of undercover identity.

"Peter, why am I a frat boy whose pants are around my ankles? Why can't I be the well-dressed hot political science major?"

"No one talks to well-dressed 'hot' political science majors."

"Yes they do!"

"No, they don't. Everyone knows that political science majors are the assholes of college campuses. Look at politicians."

"…While I see your point I still think that you're biased against poli sci majors. Only a very small percentage goes on to major in Asshole-ness."

Peter smirks. "You were one, weren't you?"

"I never went to college. I just happened to sneak into a lot of poli sci classes. And literature classes. And art. And history. A couple of science. Maybe one or two math. And philosophy."

Peter stares at him. "Did you get a free college education?"

"Quite possibly." Peter glares and he sighs. "You're going to make me dress like a frat boy, aren't you?"

"Yes, yes I am. I'm going to make you wear a sports jersey and a backwards cap too. And pants that don't fit."

"I hate you sometimes."

"That's what you get for cheating the education system, Caffrey."

"I didn't _cheat _the education system. Merely…took advantages of its weaknesses. All I did was sit in on a few classes. Made my own student ID so that I would have full access to the libraries, school functions, cafeteria, that sort of thing."

"Caffrey, shut up and put these jeans on."

"Do I have to?"

"Yes." Peter smirks, far too amused for his own good. "And then you have to pose while we take your student ID picture. You'll look adorable, I'm sure."

He takes the offered pile of clothing and scowls. "You'll get yours, Peter Burke. You will."

"Don't forget—the hat goes on _backwards_!" Peter calls after him.

* * *

**37. Coyotes—Jason Mraz **

Sometimes when Neal Caffrey looks at his life, he doesn't know whether to laugh hysterically, cry, or turn himself in to an insane asylum. Or, actually, he could just turn himself into the FBI. They're right over there, in the black van parallel parked not-so-subtly around the corner, right where they have a perfect view of him, Kate, and the quaint little café that they get coffee at every morning.

He smiles over his cup at Kate. She's beautiful. She smiles back at him, not showing the faintest sign of unease at the fact that a van full of FBI agents is stalking their every move. Every hair on her head is in perfect place; her lipstick doesn't smudge, leaves no print on the edge of her cup. He reaches across the table and intertwines his fingers with hers. They talk quietly about everything and about nothing at all. They can't have conversations of substance, not here. They have listeners.

So he sits in the café, every morning without fail, sipping coffee with Kate, playing games with the FBI. What he's _really _doing is casing the gallery down the block, the one he's going to rob in about a month, the one that he walks past every day when he goes from the café to the office building where he works in a cubicle and makes his plans. And the FBI trots along at his heels, following him through his daily routine. On the outside, he's just a normal man, sipping coffee with his girlfriend, straight-laced and blissfully unaware of criminal activities. But out of sight he's a man juggling knives, fearful of the slip of the hand and the slice of the blade.

He finishes his coffee, places the cup on the table, kisses Kate goodbye, and walks towards his office. He rounds the corner before he hears the engine of the van kick up and he grins to himself, glancing at the gallery as he passes it. The FBI can watch him all they want, but when it comes down to it, they'll still have no idea how he pulls the robbery off.

Not this time. This time he's in control. _(And oh, doesn't he play innocent so well?) _

* * *

**38. I Did It For You—David Cook**

To be honest, no day in the FBI is _normal_. Peter is used to this. He's used to the cases and the danger, just as used to the long hours and the mounds of paperwork. He works in an office—sometimes—and he wears a tie and a suit, but that's about as close to _normal _as he gets with his job. And while he works in less dangerous division—most of the time, anyway—where he's more likely to deal with a scrawny young man who thinks he can get anything he wants with a wink and a smile (_read: Neal Caffrey) _there are some cases that are darker and dangerous and remind him of the depths of human depravity. Sure, he's not working Organized Crime where the _real _sick things happen, but he gets his fair share of disturbing sights.

It starts to weigh on a person, after a while. If he let himself, he'd see a shadow around every corner; see something dark, dangerous, and slightly psychotic in the flicker of every person's eyes. He'd trust no one. He sees it happen to some of his co-workers. He sees it happen to the schmucks in Organized Crime all the time. A lot of them burn out. Luckily, that doesn't happen to him. He's got a secret weapon.

Her name is Elizabeth Burke.

He doesn't know what he would do without El. He looks at Neal and sees the heart-sickness in his eyes after Kate dies, and every time it makes him think of El, it makes him think _what if I were Neal and El was Kate? _and sometimes when he thinks that he can't bring himself to look Neal in the eye, because when he does he gets a little knot inside of him saying: _what if you lost El? _And sometimes in Neal's eyes, he sees the hardness, the look that tells Peter if he ever gets his hands on the people who killed Kate he _will _kill them. Neal's not a violent person, but Peter sees the capacity for it in his eyes. _(He doesn't blame him. Killing is the __**least **__of what he would do to a person who hurt El.) _

But when they do find Kate's killers, when Neal stands in front of the man, holds a gun in his hands, and has his finger tight on the trigger, Peter stops him. Of _course, _he stops him. He can't let Neal become a killer. He can't let his friend do something that would destroy him from the outside in and the inside out. Neal's just a kid—_despite his protests that no, he's actually thirty-one, Peter knows that he's a little boy, he's Peter Pan who never wants to grow up—_and he's not a killer, no matter what capacity might be inside of him. And there's one more thing that makes him stop Neal, one thing that has nothing to do with how he feels or how Neal feels and has everything to do with Kate.

Because if Kate was _anything _like El, anything at all, she wouldn't want Neal to be a killer.

Neal puts down the gun. Afterwards, Peter goes home and wraps himself in El's embrace and holds her tightly and has never been more grateful for her.

* * *

**39. Maybe This Time—Glee Version (Kristin Chenoweth)**

In high school—a little nothing high school in a little shit town—Neal Caffrey was miserable. He knows, logically, that for many people high school is a pit of misery and despair, but he feels that his experiences are at the top tier of misery and despair. He was awkward, shy, the strange child in the back of the classroom who never spoke, who just had glazed over eyes as he daydreamed about a different life. He had no friends, had no girlfriends, never went to prom, skipped all his yearbook pictures, was absent as often as possible. When he was present he was ignored or bullied. At home, his father alternated between yelling and fists, most times with a beer bottle in his hand. His mother skipped out when he was thirteen. Maybe she'd had enough of bruises and tears. _(To this day, he still wants to know why she didn't take him, why she didn't come back for him, why she left him.) _

High school was practice for being a ghost. He got his diploma, stole his father's debit card and cleaned out the bank account, cut his hair, changed his clothes, changed his name, and became Neal Caffrey.

He doesn't look back, ever.

* * *

**40. Those You've Known—(Spring Awakening) **

The headstone is small and marble and cold beneath his hand. His fingers come away wet with the dew. It's barely light and the world is just a bit misty, as though here the wall between living and dead is thinned down and tangible. He lays the bouquet of flowers—yellow roses and tulips, her favorite—in front of the headstone, and then he stands, looking at it. He wants to sit, but this is an expensive suit and the grass is wet and look how he's still concerned about the trivial things. Standing is punishment, for not being able to save her. He'll stand until his knees lock and his muscles ache and he feels pain. _Then_, he can sit.

She's buried next to her father. The headstone bears the inscription of her name and the dates of birth and death and your standard _daughter, friend, beloved _and it's just…_tacky_. There should be something more. A line from her favorite poet, a sculpture in the style of her favorite artist, something about what she loved and who she _was_, not _what _she was. Anyone can be a _daughter, friend, beloved_. Not everyone is Kate though.

When Peter shows up, he's not surprised. The cemetery _is _out of his radius, after all. He could have called Peter and cleared it and everything would have been fine, but he shouldn't have to ask permission to come here. And maybe he wanted Peter to show up. Maybe he wanted to be found.

"That was an interesting wake up call." Peter says. He shrugs, not looking towards the man. Peter approaches in silence until he's right behind him. He hears an intake of breath, a hesitation, and then Peter speaks again. "How are you doing?"

He wants to roll his eyes, but it feels a bit irreverent when standing in front of Kate's grave. He settles for a look over his shoulder and a raised eyebrow. "I'm standing in a graveyard, Peter."

Peter flushes. He's bad at the comforting-reassuring thing. And at emotions. And at articulating emotions. Elizabeth usually makes up for his lack of ability, but she's not here right now. "Point taken." He turns back. The flowers are bright against the dull sky and the marble and the muted grass. Peter shifts behind him. In the silent movements he hears: _I'm sorry, I don't know what to do or say, I could lie and say everything will be okay…, You'll get through this, I'm here, _and _Please don't do this to yourself_. Everything Peter wants to say and can't.

"I can program these coordinates into your radius. So you don't get called on it, in case you come here again." He turns. Peter shrugs, hands thrust into his pockets.

"That…would be helpful. Thank you, Peter."

Peter grips him gently on the shoulder, his hand warm even through the layers of clothing, and suddenly he realizes how cold he is. He looks at the grave one last time and then turns to face his partner fully. "We can go."

Peter nods and leads the way out.

_(He only looks back once.) _

* * *

Reviews are love! And they might help the next set get finished in less than two months, haha.


	5. 41 Through 48

**_A/N: _**OH MY GOD. How is it possible that this was last updated in JULY? I'm SO sorry. I transferred schools and this semester completely ate my brain. That's really the only explanation I can give...but thanks for your patience and your reviews! I deliver unto you the final set of drabbles...almost. The last two aren't here, because I'm just not happy with them. And since I really wanted to post this as a Christmas/holiday present to all of my lovely reviewers, I'm holding the last two back. They'll definitely be up before New Year's, hopefully in a couple of days! The first one in this set has spoilers for _Point Blank, _and the fourth one has a PG-13 rating. Not R, but definitely a bit more on the PG-13 side, , Merry Christmas! Enjoy!

Oh, and **mayfair22**-there is one Neal/El pairing in here for you, and one of the last two is a fluffier Neal/El pairing! XD

Disclaimer: Five months later, I _still _don't own White Collar. Or the rights to any of the songs.

**41. Wondering—Good Charlotte **

Neal Caffrey never looks more like a lost little boy than when he's huddled in the hard plastic chair, washed out by the sickly bright fluorescent lights of the hospital waiting room, waiting to see if his best friend is going to die or not. He's pitiful; half-bent, lacking the ability to straighten his spine or even pick his head up, he seems so _small_. His skin seems translucent; from across the room Peter thinks that he can pick out and map the course of every blue vein.

Peter crosses the room and takes the seat next to him. He nudges the man's arm, making an offer of the second cup of coffee that he holds steaming in his hand. Neal stirs enough to raise his head, avoids eye contact, and shakes his head without saying a word. He sighs and places the coffee—and his own—on the table next to him.

"You should get up and stretch your legs, Neal," he says. "You'll get stiff otherwise."

The Neal Caffrey he knows should make some inane little comment about being _stiff _with a half grin and a wink. At the very least, he should say _something_. But he doesn't do anything at all, doesn't move, doesn't speak, just sits and sinks deeper into himself.

Peter swallows and tries to think of something to draw a reaction. Seeing Neal like this honestly _scares _him. He reaches out and lays a hand on the kid's shoulder. "Neal, don't do this to yourself."

Neal twitches. He can feel the muscles spasm beneath his hand, feel them tighten as Neal lifts his head. "This is _my _fault," Neal whispers. There's a catch in his voice, as if he's seconds away from crying. "I just _had _to push it. I had to get him involved. It should have been _me_—."

"Shut up."

For about ten seconds—in which Neal looks at him with bloodshot blue eyes—he wonders whom that voice belongs to, before realizing that _he _is the one who spoke. Then he continues, his voice harsh. "Just shut up, Neal."

"Don't tell me it's not my fault, Peter."

He growls. "It is your fault. You got him involved in this stupid plan of yours." Neal flinches and his eyes flash guilt and hurt and Peter wants desperately to look away, because all he sees is a lost boy wanting someone to make things right. "And it's my fault for not knowing what you were up to. It's my fault for not paying attention, my fault for not protecting him. It's _his _fault for deciding to help you, and for not being more careful. We're all at fault, Neal. But we _aren't_, because there isn't one of us who pulled the damn trigger. _That _is who is to blame. _That _is the person that we are going to _destroy_. We couldn't prevent it, but we can sure as hell put it to rights."

Neal looks away from him. "That sentiment doesn't remove the bullet from Mozzie's chest. It doesn't magically heal him."

He lets out a breath, slumping back. "No, Neal, it doesn't." He shakes his head, then looks at the kid again. "Do you need anything?"

"The ability to go back in time."

He half smiles, because _that _is Neal Caffrey. "Can't help you there, kid. Anything else?"

Neal shakes his head, hesitates, and looks at him. "Just…stay here? I—I don't want to wait alone."

"I wouldn't dream of leaving."

* * *

**42. When "You're" Around—Motion City Soundtrack**

Mozzie regrets the day that he introduces Neal Caffrey to Kate Moreau. When he does it he has no idea of the ramifications, that little event will have on the future. Neal isn't yet his best friend; he's just a business partner, a talented kid who could use his tutelage, who could be great with a little help. Kate is just a pretty face who gets good reviews among their crowd. She's perfect for a part in the job that they're pulling, so he brings her around, introduces her to Neal, and they get down to business.

At this point in time, he doesn't know that Neal will become one of the centers of his world. He's always been a loner, hovering on the outskirts of everything, too paranoid to let people in close. Neal, for all his easy charm and infectious personality, is a kindred spirit. Mozzie doesn't know this yet, doesn't know that he will one day willingly cooperate with the FBI for Neal, doesn't know that he will one day do anything for the kid.

Equally, he doesn't know what kind of person Kate Moreau is, or that by bringing her into their lives he's unleashing the kraken on a ship full of unsuspecting innocents. He is deep within the criminal world, so he doesn't expect for the people he is around to be paragons of virtue. He expects them to lie, cheat, and hide. But he doesn't know that to Kate lying is air in her lungs. He doesn't know that she lies with her entire being, so convincingly that she can fool the best of them. He doesn't know that when he introduces Neal to her he is condemning the kid—and himself, that can't be forgotten—to a dangerous, complicated game.

It takes a while, but eventually things fall into place in Mozzie's logic. He loves Neal. Neal is permanent in his life. Just as equally, he hates Kate. But Neal loves Kate. Kate is permanent in Neal's life. Therefore, Kate is permanent in _his _life as well.

And when Kate breaks Neal's heart, he hates knowing that it is _his _fault.

* * *

**43. Time Won't Let Me Go—The Bravery**

The second time that Peter realizes Neal is still leading a double life—he's perfectly aware that there are a hundred variations of Neal _(his Neal, El's Neal, Mozzie's Neal, Kate's Neal, dozens of them all minutely different but at least all still named Neal Caffrey)_, but this is just Neal changing himself a bit, this is Neal pretending to be an entirely _different _person, and not for any job that Peter can figure out—it's two days before Neal's thirty-second birthday.

_(The first time is about six months into their partnership, and it ends as simply as Peter flopping a credit card with the name Jake Martin down on the table in front of Neal and raising an eyebrow. Neal blushes a bit and gives his best innocent look and after Peter takes a pair of scissors and cuts the credit card in half it's over. They never say anything about it after that, and Peter just lets Jake Martin die peacefully. But this time he can't do it.)_

At eleven o'clock in the evening on the day before Neal's birthday, Peter shows up at his apartment holding a six-pack in one hand and a bottle of good wine in his other. Neal opens the door, stares at him for a second, and then grins, stepping back to let him in.

"What's the occasion?"

He shrugs, putting the wine on the counter and the beer in the fridge, leaving one out. "An early celebration. You're getting old, Caffrey." Neal wrinkles his nose and pulls the cork on the wine, letting it breathe.

"Are there going to be balloons and cupcakes on my desk tomorrow morning?"

"You're not a fourteen year old girl, Neal."

"Everyone likes cupcakes. Don't even pretend otherwise."

He laughs a little. "El's making you a cake."

"Oh good."

Peter sips his beer, Neal pours a glass of wine, and they sit in silence together, Peter caught by the things he needs to say, Neal held silent by some intuition. "So how long has Sam Pell been around?" He finally asks taking another drink as Neal stiffens. Neal's too easy to read, and he wonders why. His feeble defense—_"Who?" with an innocent bat of his eyes—_doesn't have any heart in it. Neal is an excellent liar and they both know it, so the fact that his lies are so flimsy means he's not really trying. Peter just tilts his head and Neal shrugs in response.

"Two or three months," Neal says, running the pad of his forefinger around the rim of the wineglass. "I'm a little surprised you didn't stumble across it sooner."

Peter lets that slide by him, asking another question instead. "Why do it? You're not pulling a job. Hell, you're not even _planning _a job. You're just…"

"Being someone else," Neal says, finishing the thought and refusing to meet Peter's eyes. The younger man sighs. "Haven't you…haven't you ever just been tired of being one person? You've never wanted to be someone else?"

He leans back in his chair. "Sure. But I've never actually tried to _be _someone else."

Neal grins crookedly. "I'm practiced at the art. If I can be anyone, why not?"

He scowls. "Thinking like that only gets you into trouble, Caffrey."

Neal shrugs. "I'm not doing anything illegal. Not even a credit card scam like last time. Just…changing my clothes. Doing my hair different. Using a bit of an accent. Using a different name. Being someone different for a couple of hours, no harm, no foul."

He folds his arms, tipping back on his chair. "How long are you going to be someone else, Neal? How much of your life are you going to spend being Jake Martin or Sam Pell or even Nick Holden?"

"They're just roles, Peter. I play them and at the end of the day I'm back to being Neal Caffrey."

Peter shakes his head, tipping back down to set all four legs of the chair on the ground. "No. _I _play roles. _Diana _plays roles. _Mozzie _plays roles. We play them and we drop them. _You _don't. You have whole other lives, Neal. You _live _them, and at the end of the day I don't think you know who the hell you are." He folds his arms. "How many moments in your life have belonged to Neal Caffrey, and how many have belonged to someone else?" Neal's lips tighten and he looks away; Peter presses forward. "First kiss, first job, first time you were in love? First time you sold a painting? First time you _stole _a painting? How many moments belong to _you_, Neal?"

Neal drums his fingers on the table, frowning. "Not…not many," he admits softly.

Peter glances at his watch and raises his beer. "Am I wishing Neal a happy birthday, or Sam Pell?"

Neal lifts his glass, smiling. "Neal. I suppose I can be him. At least for a little while."

Peter shakes his head, trying to scowl and grinning instead.

* * *

**44. More—Stealing Jane**

Neal Caffrey and Elizabeth Burke are cut of the same cloth. Dark haired, blue eyed, vibrant and intelligent, beautiful and graceful; they are meticulous planners, quick-thinkers, capable of fierce anger and greater passion. Peter Burke is their perfect match, just as intelligent, just as passionate, but more even, simpler in the depths of his almost clumsy elegance. He steadies and grounds them.

But not tonight.

Tonight, there is no Peter. There is no grounding. Tonight there is all the fury and the passion; there is no stop, no cease, no holding back.

He pushes her hard against the wall and she bites his lower lip, drawing a groan from him. He pins her hands above her head, sucking hard on her neck, leaving marks; he looses her hands to fumble with the zipper on her dress as she pulls on his tie and tears at the buttons on his shirt. When the zipper doesn't loosen—and when she impatiently nips his earlobe—he growls low in his throat and runs his hands up her thigh, pulling the dress up and over her head instead. _(Mostly because no matter how much his cock is thinking for him, El will plot his death during the after-glow if he rips her dress.) _He takes her, bodily lifts her, and throws her onto the bed; she bounces a bit, giggles and gives him a flash of bright smile, and then grabs him by the waistband, one hand sliding down into his pants while the other hand works the button and zipper.

The rest of their clothes are tossed away, the last barriers gone, and then there is nothing except them. There is no Peter. There is no marriage, no judgment, no grounding, no thought except for _now _and _want _and _need _and _more_. They go higher and higher and Neal always hears of stars bursting in front of your eyes but he's never believed it, but with El there are stars and supernovas and whole galaxies. He and Elizabeth are a billion miles away from New York, floating in the brilliant oblivion of space.

_(He wants it to last forever.)_

_

* * *

_

**45. Livin' La Vida Loca—Ricky Martin**

"Let me get this straight. You want me to seduce the daughter of an internationally known, Mob-funded extortionist."

Peter smirks at him. "Not _seduce_. Just, take her on a date, do your _Look-how-handsome-and-innocent-I-am _thing, get her to talk to you."

He blinks in response.

"Did I mention that she's a practicing Satanist?"

Two more blinks, and Peter pats him on the shoulder. "Have fun, kid. Call me if she tries to sacrifice a virgin. Or a goat."

Predictably, the date does not go well. How could it? Cynthia Mayers is the spoiled daughter of a _bad _man, used to getting her way and having those who oppose her hurt; she is vain, self-centered, loud, temperamental, everything that he hates in a person. Peter's actually wrong; she's _not _a practicing Satanist. No, she's moved on to the next controversial fad—apparently worshipping Satan was just a _phase_—which means that she shows up at the restaurant—the very _nice_, _expensive_, _exclusive _restaurant—clad in a coat made of _puppy skin_. She's freakin' Cruella Deville in the flesh.

From her original appearance, it only goes downhill. He puts on his best charming, smooth expression—the one that, not to be arrogant or anything, has seduced many a woman _(and a man)_—but she tests even his best acting skills. Trying to pry useful information out of this woman is like trying to climb Mount Everest in a pair of sneakers and shorts, theoretically possible if you happen to be Superman, but completely out of the realm of possibility if you're a normal person. He taps his fingers on the table and drinks more wine than he probably should and smiles until hurts.

After they finish dinner Cruella—he's fairly sure that her birth certificate actually says that instead of _Cynthia_—bats her eyes flirtatiously at him and draws a long blood-red fingernail over the collar of his shirt in a way that he guesses is supposed to be seductive—although actually it makes him want to cover his stomach lest she decide to reach in and pull out his intestines with her claws or something like that—and whispers an invitation in his ear. He swallows hard—_the case, Caffrey, think of the case_—and accepts, trying not to shudder or gag at her increasingly inappropriate touches. They take her car back to her penthouse apartment, where he's surprised that there aren't body parts floating in jars lining the shelves.

In the morning, he comes stalking into the FBI office and slaps a folder down on Peter's desk. The smirk that the agent gives him is not _nearly _worshipful enough, not by far. "Have a nice night?"

"You don't even know what I have been through. There's everything you need for the case. You can find Cynthia Mayers handcuffed to her coffee table. Now, if you'll excuse me, I am going to go steal a painting from the MET. I'll be back in an hour." He stalks out the door, Peter trailing along behind him.

"You're just kidding, right Neal? Neal? Caffrey? _Neal!_"

* * *

**46. You're Gonna Go Far, Kid—The Offspring**

At eighteen, with bright eyes and a tongue that drips candy words, Neal Caffrey is clay, ready for the molding. He's the raw materials of excellence: face of a movie star, the soulful eyes of a kicked puppy, a snake charmer's ability at manipulation, enough artistic ability to make a legitimate career, and a moral compass that doesn't exactly point north. Mozzie looks at him and _has _to get his hands on him, because he knows immediately that Neal will be his masterpiece.

At twenty-five, Neal is the statue of a Greek god, as perfect as human hands are capable of making him. Smooth, sophisticated, aware of his array of abilities and just how they can be used to his advantage; Mozzie sits back with his arms folded and nods in satisfaction, because damn if he doesn't do good work. Of course, along the way he's poured a bit too much of himself into Neal's creation; like Basil painting Dorian Gray he's lost some part of himself forever to his work.

At twenty-nine, time has ravaged him, as though it has been hundreds of years rather than four; he's curling in at the edges, his colors fading, minute rips forming across the face of his canvas. Mozzie doesn't come to the prison—it's too much like asking for trouble, and what criminal willingly walks into the lion's den unasked?—but he can imagine Neal's subtle deterioration. He doesn't want to look through the bars at the man he helped to fashion—the best friend he has in the world, the man he loves—and see him crumbling. No artist wants to watch the world destroy his work. _(But when Neal calls, he comes, because how could he not?)_

At thirty-two, Neal has been restored expertly. More than that, he's been made _better_, and the process isn't over yet. It's still happening, still pressing forward; perhaps the hardened clay of his being wasn't quite as solid as he thought, because it's soft enough to still be molded, to be crafted into a different shape. The minute that Neal teams up with the Suit and lets them slap a tracking device around his ankle, Mozzie starts to see the change. Part of him wants to stop it, to reach out and pull Neal back and keep him as he was, but the part of him that isn't selfish holds him still and silent. He sits and watches, and lets Neal pass from his hands into Peter's. _(He loves Neal too much to confine him to one shape. No, better to let him transform. He'll be beautiful no matter what form he takes.)_

_

* * *

_

**47. Existentialism on Prom Night—Stray Light Run**

The best moments of his life are Sunday mornings. The sun seeps in through the cracks in the blinds and creeps its way across the floor, a string of light that draws through the darkness and slides up over the covers of the bed. He wakes when the sun-line reaches his knees, because the heat starts as a soft warmth and quickly becomes far too hot. Some mornings he wakes with his face in the crook of Peter's neck; other mornings he's hidden in a tangle of Elizabeth's sweet smelling hair, always trying to hide from the encroaching light. He always wakes feeling heavy, weighted down by the covers as they twist around his limbs and by the tangle of body parts that don't belong to him, the muscular arm draped over his chest that belongs to Peter, or the slim legs that intertwine with his own and belong to El. It never fails that when he wakes he is hot, held firmly in place, and unable to even squirm without waking one of his bedfellows.

He wouldn't have it any other way. These mornings when he wakes, he wants nothing more than to lay there forever, in a tangle of limbs and hair and smooth, hot skin, because these are the moments when the world does not exist. It is him and El and Peter, and his chest tightens and he feels suffocated by words that stick in his throat and emotions that roam behind his eyes. He takes shallow breaths, afraid that if he breathes deep the world will shatter, or one of them will wake and his mind will stutter back into motion. He doesn't want to think, he just wants to float here in perfect bliss and harmony. He wonders if El and Peter feel the same way in their captured moments, if they wish to suspend time the way he does, if they wish that they could bottle this perfect unity and hold it inside of themselves forever.

Eventually the heat becomes too much and he has to move, has to at least kick the covers loose from his feet. When he does this El makes a little mewing sound soft in her throat and Peter's arm tightens around his waist, and he knows that in five minutes' time they'll both surface and open their eyes and then there will be sleepy murmurs and soft touches and a different kind of perfect.

He closes his eyes, burrows against their bodies, and waits for that perfection to sweep him up.

* * *

**48. Bad Romance—Lady Gaga**

June Carroll doesn't know Neal Caffrey before prison. She doesn't know anything of how he becomes a criminal, of what crimes he has committed, of what his family is like or even if he has a family, of what his romantic life is like; she knows only that he comes up to her in the thrift store with a conman's smile that can't quite hide the pleading in the back of his eyes. She knows both expressions like the back of her hand, and it's no surprise that she takes him under her wing right away. Her children are grown and gone, her grandchildren are growing and busy with their own lives, and when she sees Byron staring at her from the blue eyes of this man-child-convict she doesn't have it in her to turn him away. So Neal Caffrey becomes part of her household and part of her life and with him comes a slew of characters.

As a landlady, June is the best. She keeps the house and the apartment perfectly up to standard, is kind and courteous, is welcoming, and invites Neal into the fold of her life. She's aware that he's too old to need a mother, far past the time when a steady motherly influence could have changed the course of his life, but the mother in her kicks up a notch, because Neal _does _need looking after, even if he doesn't need it from her. She watches the people who come through her door following in Neal's wake: the steady and handsome Peter Burke, the lovely and poised Elizabeth Burke, the enigmatic and loyal Mozzie, the slew of women who all want more from Neal than he could give even if he wanted to; she befriends many of them, and the rest she watches like a hawk, ready to swoop in if they show signs of hurting him.

But there is only one person that walks through the door that June honest to God _hates_, and her name is Kate Moreau. She pries the little details of Neal's life out, partly from Neal himself, partly from Peter, but mostly from Mozzie. She knows the role that Kate has played in Neal's life, and the role that she continues to play from a distance. The distaste in Mozzie's voice alone could make June dislike the woman, and seeing Neal's reactions to her little games—because _she_, of all people, recognizes the signs of another woman's manipulations—makes her detest the girl, but it's when Kate walks through her door that she really _hates _the woman. She comes home to find Kate snooping around in the nooks and crannies of Neal's apartment, looking for God knows what, and when she comes in Kate throws up her head like a panicked deer, all wide eyes and pretty smiles, and June doesn't buy a second of it. Kate disappears as quick as she's come, leaving no sign of her presence except for a bad taste in June's mouth.

She doesn't tell Neal. Maybe it's the mother in her, wanting to protect the child from the knowledge that he's been so thoroughly betrayed by the person he loves most. She _should _tell him, because she sees how he throws himself over cliffs for Kate, but she holds her tongue, afraid of what might happen if he knows. She thinks about telling Mozzie, but then the plane explodes and the world she's been looking in on implodes and she keeps her silence. She can't speak now, not without destroying what's left of Neal.

_(Part of her that will never speak aloud is happy that Kate is dead. What kind of person is she, to rejoice in a woman's death? But another part of her answers that question. A mother, always protecting her child.)_

_

* * *

_

I give you a holiday promise that the last two will be up by New Year's, and then this monstrosity will finally be DONE! Remember, reviews are great Christmas presents!


	6. 49 Through 50

_A/N: _It's finally done! FINALLY, after TEN months, it's done! I present to you all the final two drabbles/one-shots of this collection. As you can see if you scroll down, number 50 is a full-fledged one-shot. I can't even pretend that it's a drabble, since its fifteen-hundred words, haha. These two, after giving me so much trouble, turn out to be two of my favorites, so I hope you like them too! I'd like to take the moment to thank everyone who reviewed, everyone who favorited this fic, and everyone who put this fic on alert! Happy holidays to everyone, and if you're somewhere that it's snowing, like me, stay safe! Enjoy!

Disclaimer: After fifty songs and fifty drabbles, I'm firmly convinced that I do _not _own _White Collar_. Unfortunately.

**49. Noise and Kisses—The Used**

When Neal first meets Elizabeth Burke he pegs her as an older, lovely, gentler, more cheerful version of Kate Moreau, and looking at her makes him long for his own love and marvel at the fact that he and Peter both love shades of the same person. But the more time that he spends in El's presence, the more he begins to see the differences between his Kate and her. Maybe Kate's absence makes him pay so much attention to her, for they _do _markedly resemble each other with their pale skin and their dark hair and their clear eyes only minute shades away from being the same blue. He finds himself staring at her sometimes, soaking in the details of her features, sometimes superimposing Kate's features over hers, other times searching out the differences. The first couple of months when he thinks of Elizabeth he thinks first of Kate, then morphs her features into those of his partner's wife.

But as time moves on, it changes. Kate's features cloud over in his mind, and he finds himself thinking of Elizabeth's face first, reversing the process until it's _her _face that hardens into Kate's. And he finds himself looking deeper than physical resemblance, and once he does so he finds the true distance between the two women. Kate is beautiful and glittering and elegant…and hard, cold beneath her skin like the sharp planes of a diamond. El, though, is just as a beautiful, but she's also soft and sweet and warm. He compares the two without consciously thinking about it. El is passionate about everything, and gives all of herself to something; Kate _never _commits herself fully, always holds back and waits and has that calculation in the back of her eyes. _(Peter and Mozzie always tell him about that cold calculation, as though he's blind to it. Just because he loves(-ed) her doesn't mean he can't see something so obvious.) _

Kate's absence stretches longer and longer, and even though Neal drives himself crazy over her, he finds himself caring less and less. He's been with Kate for years, but he's also been away from her for years, separated by clear glass and steel bars, left only with the imprint of her scent and touch in his mind and an image of her that became more perfect with every day that he couldn't have her in his arms. Now, he is still separated from her, but his perfect image is disintegrating slowly under the pressure of the real world. _(Who is he kidding? It's crumbling because he has El, living, breathing, flawed-perfect El there, and his fantasies of Kate can't hold up to the reality of Elizabeth Burke.)_

At some point along the way, Neal realizes that he closes his eyes and dreams of Elizabeth Burke. He closes his eyes and summons her soft face and the wave of her hair over her shoulder and the curves of her body pressed against the fabric of her clothing; he has the way her lips part and the exact color of her eyes and curve of her neck all boiling inside of his head. _(Kate is reduced to a dusty flower pressed between the pages of a yellowed book, something once beautiful and once loved, remembered when it is stumbled upon and forgotten the rest of the time.) _If he drives himself crazy now, it is because he wants to run his hands across El's skin and memorize the smoothness, and knows that he can't. He's never been all that respectful of the sanctity of marriage, but in this case, he holds himself back. This is Peter—who is his partner, his friend, the person putting himself on the line to keep him from going back to prison—and _El_. El, who loves her husband, who deserves better than to be made into an adulteress. He loves her—_(oh hell, he __**loves **__her)—_too much to ask that of her.

But when she smiles at him and when she pats him on the shoulder, when their arms brush sitting on the couch, or that time when she loops her hand in his and skims the edge of her thumb over the heel of his palm, he feels his heart thud and jerk and try to pull a coup d'état inside of his chest. And when they kiss for the first time, he is sorry. Sorry for Kate, sorry for Peter, but not nearly sorry enough to stop when he has everything he has ever wanted snuggled in his arms.

* * *

**50. Where We Went Wrong—The Hush Sound**

The funny thing is, they don't even realize that they are on their first family vacation until they're lost somewhere in Vermont.

It goes like this: Neal and Peter have a case in Vermont. It's a very important case, that Neal's expertise is needed on and _must _be done in person, and the Bureau reluctantly allows Neal to leave the state of New York so long as he is accompanied at all times. Of course, a second "chaperone" is needed—because who in their right mind leaves Peter and Neal alone together for an extended period of time out of state? God only knows what the two of them will get into unsupervised—but Jones, Diana, and Lauren are all busy with other cases and can't take time off to babysit a wayward convict and his handler. This would probably present a major problem if not for one thing: Elizabeth Burke.

As it turns out, El needs to make a trip to New Hampshire to oversee the construction of an event for one of her VIP clients. When she hears about the case in Vermont, and the need for a second babysitter, she comes into the agency and saunters right up to Hughes's office, bearing a brilliant smile and a plate of cookies—having long ago learned that the most effective bribe is an offering of homemade baked goods. It takes her five minutes in Hughes's office before he comes out and orders Neal and Peter to start packing.

This is how the two Burkes and one Neal Caffrey end up in Peter's car, driving to Vermont. Before leaving they create a stockpile of coffee, water, chips, cookies, and CD offerings, one of which is Peter's and is immediately discarded, two of which are Neal's offerings—at which Peter squints his eyes and asks "are these CDs of illegally downloaded music?" and gets an innocent smile in reply—and El's CD case. Peter drives—after much disagreement as Neal makes snarky comments about Peter's driving skills, El fails to defend her husband, and Peter finally snipes back that Neal doesn't even _have _a driver's license, to which Neal's response is "are you sure?" and another innocent smile—Neal is placed in charge of the maps and GPS, and El sprawls out in the back. When they are finally on the road Neal entertains them all with stories that he has to conveniently change some of the names in, El seizes control of the music from the backseat—which involves her leaning into the front and grappling with Neal as Peter threatens to turn the car around, and Peter yells at drivers from Connecticut, drivers from Massachusetts, fellow drivers from New York, and seems firmly convinced that he is the only person in the world capable of driving, though his wife and his…Neal seem to disagree.

Around one-thirty they stop to eat at a dive off of the highway. Neal complains about the tacky décor, Elizabeth seizes both of their hands, always excited by the adventurous offerings of slightly dubious restaurants, and Peter really just wants half of a cow on a plate before he is forced to eat his own hand. After lunch, they get back on the road, playing traveling games to pass the time. Peter swears that Neal cheats at these, and Neal just laughs and tells him that he's ridiculous in response. They hit traffic around Boston, which has Peter yelling obscenities and Neal making rude gestures at the other cars, and El warning them that if they get her arrested she is going to be _very _upset.

And somewhere around the border of Vermont, they get lost. They don't realize it for another hour, by which point they are well and truly _lost_. A miserable, dreary rain moves in and the sun sets and the winding mountain-forest roads all look the same, which doesn't help matters at all. When they finally realize that they are _not _in the right place, a fierce argument breaks out. At this point, they are all tired, stiff, and grouchy, and of them, Neal has the longest temper and that's not really saying much. Peter blames Neal for not paying attention to the maps or the GPS. Neal snipes back about Peter's driving skills, adding in that "maybe if this map wasn't of Kentucky and your GPS had been updated in the past _five years_, we wouldn't be lost." El tries briefly to play peacemaker, attempting to soothe both of them, and ends up having Peter round on her for always taking Neal's side. And there goes Elizabeth Burke's temper. She yells shortly at Peter before subsiding into a sulky silence as Peter jerks them around on the winding curves and Neal punches buttons on the GPS in increasing frustration, the beeping sound filling the car until Peter finally yells at him to stop, leading to the GPS's crash to the floor of the car. Neal and Peter yell at each other and El joins into the fray just for the hell of it, and then the car hydroplanes on a curve. Peter grits his teeth, holding tight to the steering wheel, as El gives a little shriek and Neal grabs her hand, holding it tight while his other hand grips the ceiling bar. When Peter gets the car back under control there is a tense silence, all of them breathing hard, adrenaline rushing through them. Neal slowly releases his grip on El's hand, and in unison, the two of them touch Peter's shoulder gently. His knuckles are white from his grip on the steering wheel, but he relaxes just a fraction at their touch.

It's in this ensuing silence that El realizes exactly what their situation is, and when she does, she begins to laugh. Neal turns in his seat to look at her with a raised eyebrow while Peter just flicks a glance at her in the rearview mirror.

"Do you realize what we are? We're a TV sitcom family on a family vacation. The family gets into shenanigans, argues, has a near death experience to make them realize how much they all mean to each other, and then has a heart-warming tender moment before starting to squabble again."

Neal grins at her, and she knows that Peter is smiling too from the dimple on his cheek. "Most sitcom families aren't three adults, El. Who am I in this picture?"

She shrugs. "It worked for Full House."

"You're the talking dog, Caffrey." Peter says, and Neal rolls his eyes.

"Then what does that make you, Peter? The exchange student that everyone locks in a closet because he won't shut up?"

El clears her throat, still grinning. "_Clearly_, I'm the single mother with two troublesome boys."

The men both mock-glare at her. Peter rolls his shoulders. "All right. We're lost. The GPS is under the seat somewhere. It's raining and it's dark. Who's for stopping somewhere for the night and finding our way in the morning?" Neal and El raise their hands. "Oh good, because there's our place to stay," he says, nodding his head out the window to the building in front of them. Neal scowls at it.

"The Hi Ho Motel? Peter, you've got to be kidding."

"There aren't exactly a lot of choices around, Neal. Besides, I'm sure you've slept in worse places."

"I committed crimes so that I didn't _have _to sleep in places like this. I'd rather not have to get checked for an STD because I _touched _one of these mattresses."

Peter pulls into the parking lot and shuts off the engine. "No, you committed crimes because you're an idiot. No stop complaining and get the bags out of the trunk."

"Yes, sir!" Neal says sarcastically, as El grins in the back. Peter turns to her, smiling. "I'll help the criminal with the bags. Go get us a room, sweetie?" She leans forward and kisses his cheek.

"Of course."

When the three of them finally stumble through the rain with their luggage, fumble with the key in the lock, and open the door they find six month's worth of dusty, a musty smell, and one king-sized bed with a mirror over it. The men drop the bags and stare, while El just smirks. "It was all they had. We'll just have to share the bed," she says, pulling off one of Neal's innocent smiles. Peter blinks at her, and then glares at Neal.

"Stop corrupting her!" Neal gives him a bewildered look, glances at her, and grins, then pulls an identical smile on Peter. He growls, grabs her around the waist, and carries her bodily across to the bed. "Close the door, Caffrey, and get over here," he calls over his shoulder. Neal obeys. _(For once.)_

In the morning, when they all clamber back into the car and set themselves straight, they conclude that getting lost is a _very _good thing. And if it happens to happen again, say, on their return trip, well, who's complaining?

* * *

_A/N 2: _Just a couple of funny notes about the last one-shot here. The incident about getting lost in Vermont is inspired by the time that my mother and I got lost in Vermont, only it was a snowstorm and we pulled over for the night at a very nice little inn somewhere in the mountains. The Hi Ho Motel, however, _is _a real place, down by Atlantic City, and it is just as sketchy looking as it sounds, haha. Once again, thanks for reading!


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